


Rewind

by Runlights



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Assassination, Canon Divergence, Captivity, Character Death, Double Agents, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Science, F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Gen, Howling Commandos - Freeform, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Prison camps, Prisoner of War, Project Rebirth, Snipers, Stark Expo, Strategic Scientific Reserve, Super Soldier Serum, The Tesseract (Marvel), Time Travel, War violence, War-related violence, World War II, inhumane treatment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 147,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runlights/pseuds/Runlights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Wars are fought with weapons, but they are won by men. We are going to win this war because we have the best men."</i>
</p><p>HYDRA uses the Tesseract to send an Agent back through time to ensure the success of the Second Great War in its favour. Winning a war never means that there aren't great losses at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, Marvel can't seem to decide on its own timeline and told the actual history timeline of World War II to go fly a kite. This is in no way historically accurate despite my best intentions of trying to make it so. Some dates are correct as according to the Great War and others are not because HYDRA makes a mess of everything, including timelines. Second, that being said, this is a **war-based** fic, which means that I will be using my perchance to describe violence without much of a filter. The simple reason is: war is horrible, violent, and tragic. There is nothing honourable about it. That being said, like most of my current research into this era, there is always morbid humour so we all don't collapse in on ourselves in depressed heaps.
> 
> Third, I will apologize in advance for my attempt to incorporate accents into dialogue. I was attempting to make this feel a little more authentic that way, but I can't say that it will come across that way. So here's to all the changed 'th' to 'z' and 'w' to 'v' that take place. I threw my hands up in defeat for drunken slurring. Sorry. 
> 
> Like all my other works, this is not beta-read, so please pardon any glaring mistakes that appear grammatically, spelling-ly or historically.

*****

“Are you ready?”

Brock’s head shot up from the file full of pictures that he was pretending to look at and sighted one of the last men he expected to see here in this base. His smooth jaw worked, and he had to resist the urge to rise and salute. That quickly gave way to the itch to run his fingers through his lightly greased dark hair, but he knew if he messed it up again, the technician in charge of his appearance would probably slap him.

He instead snapped the file folder closed on the old pictures and set it aside, rising to his feet slowly. His shoes weren’t even that comfortable, but they were a stiff leather that he was going to have to get used to. “Sir, ready as I’ll ever be.”

“You certainly look the part.” He suspected it was supposed to be a compliment, but his grated nerves couldn’t accept it. He was in suspenders after all, and he looked like some rich preppy drop-out. “You should fix your tie.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

He reached up and adjusted his dark green rough cotton tie from being loose and hanging down his chest to up snug at his throat. He flexed his hands, feeling the pull of the cuffs around his wrists and wanting to give anything to be out of this outfit. He itched for the freedom of movement that came with soft cottons or even the rough pull of his old military fatigues.

“Sir…”

“Not now, Brock. Concentrate on what you’re about to achieve, even if it is nothing more than the start of your mission,” the older man said. He was appraised with a glance. “If you succeed, you will be a hero. If you fail, well… I heard you were called a disappointment enough not to have to hear it from me.”

The muscles along his jawline tightened, and he stood rigid but refusing to rise to the bait. The best day of his life had come when that asshole of a father had finally earned enough of a savage drunken reputation to be found in a ditch choked on puke and a single shot to the head. He wasn’t going to look back on the time before then as anything but a long session to brutalize the need for independence at an early age. He had taken that and run with it, and he wasn’t going to look back on anything. He had to look forward.

There was a certain irony of that thought with what he was striving to do now. His old man wasn’t even going to exist once he was finished; he’d make certain the possibility was wiped clean. It wasn’t revenge; it was a salute to how much better the gene pool would be without that bloodline dirtying it up.

The Secretary stepped into the small private room, crossing the distance with a cool certainty that always aired around the man. He envied that, but he was a man of action who used glib when necessary. The Secretary had a charisma unmatched, the kind of smile that was both warm and inviting, but the hard hand that suggested action and demanded respect. The Secretary was not a man to cross, and he had never had the misfortune of being on the strawberry blond’s bad side. Always, he strove to prove himself as a brother, cousin, and son of HYDRA.

It was a far better family than he had ever had. Brotherhood born in similar ideals, hard work and secret was hard to break.

Rumlow stiffened to attention when the Secretary’s hands rose and pulled at the stiff collar of his shirt, smoothing it over his tie. They were the same height, and he found it easier than it should be to stare the man in the eye like they were somehow equals. “You will succeed.”

“Sir,” he said, uncertain if the confidence was for him or for the Secretary. “There are others…”

The Secretary waved a hand as if dismissing pigeons. “Inferior in every way, and the Tesseract isn’t ready. As I hear it, it’s being temperamental again. Perhaps it doesn’t have the right guidance.”

Brock swallowed down a lump trying to form in his throat. “How many, if I may ask?”

“Two.”

Project Rewind had started with twenty-four men and women, and they were now apparently down to ten. The selection process had required certain characteristics in the candidates, and their education to get to this point had been intense memorization, physical training and improvisation. If their core group of twenty-four failed, the project would be abandoned for more favourable endeavors.

The selection to make the ‘prophetic walk’ as it was called was random. Fourteen had now made the walked and never returned. The remaining candidates had begun to talk after the sixth one had never came back, but they were committed to the cause and the potential for changing the world with their success. It was hard to fight down rumour when there was no information as to the hows and whys of the failure. The walks just continued.

The Secretary wasn’t part of this project. He wasn’t certain if the man’s interests were benign or malicious, though there was something to be said about the fact that this man had put his name into the pool to be chosen originally. The glory of HYDRA went to the victor to bring about a secure world order after all, and he knew that the heads of HYDRA were a vicious lot, intelligent, cunning, and determined to see years of dedication and hard work pay off with the ultimate prize.

“Do you believe this project will succeed, sir?” Brock, even at twenty-five years old, was not a man to sit around talking about the what ifs and the whens. Even he had his doubts though.

“I believe that the new world order will come into being with the right man being placed at the right time in the right place. You have doubts?” The Secretary gave him one of those smiles that encouraged confidence. “Come, walk with me, Brock.”

There was little choice in refusing, and he reasoned that he needed to get used to his hard leather shoes anyway. “This project has been in the making for four years,and we’re only on testing phase, but there’s talk…” he trailed off, knowing better than to speak ill of his superiors.

“Go on,” the Secretary encouraged as well as directed the pace of their walk down the hallway.

“If the twenty-four of us fail, the project is over and…” he took a pause to allow two technicians to pass them and move out of earshot. “Von Strucker is returning to Nuremberg to pursue other advancements for HYDRA.”

The Secretary continued them on their stroll, directing him down a different hallway with an arm across his shoulders, friendly, almost mentor-like. “Understand that what I’m about to tell you is top-secret intelligence, and not required background for your mission.” There was one of those potent pauses that the Secretary had long ago mastered. The grip across his shoulders tightened. “The Tesseract is not an object that HYDRA may keep long; the only reason this has at all been possible is because I have guided research away from its uses for a few years. However, interest always returns to it and so it should. The lease on it is almost up and if your project fails, you will be dead and it no longer your concern.”

He nodded his head, not particularly surprised to hear that the others who had made the walk were dead. He didn’t feel much for the loss despite having studied with most of them; he didn’t have strong ties with any of those people, though he respected them as fellow HYDRA members. In this game, it was every man for himself. However, he knew he was different because he wasn’t here for glory; he was here to make a difference that he believed in. Freedom from the illusion of freedom itself.

“When I make my walk, I’ll do everything in my power to succeed, sir,” he found himself saying. He didn’t know the Secretary well, but he wanted to expose his worth to this man more than the others. The strawberry blond had shown benign interest in him from time-to-time since he had joined HYDRA, which was more than most could say.

“Yes, I know. That’s what I like about you, Brock. You set your mind to something and it becomes your entire life-long ambition to see it done. You are in the best position to prove your merits,” the Secretary said. He felt himself flush with pleasure at the praise.

They were approaching another T-junction and he didn’t fight himself being directed to the right. He knew that it was towards the room where the Tesseract was being kept and where all the prophetic walks had taken place. He doubted he was being taken there without cause, and he glanced over at the Secretary.

“It’s not my day to walk,” he said simply.

“Your day comes when the heads of HYDRA say it is, or… when you take it yourself.” The Secretary stopped outside of the massively thick doors that served as the blockade between the hallway and the room beyond.

“Von Strucker decided our order would be random,” he remarked. He knew that the Baron was a high ranking man of HYDRA, one of the heads. Von Strucker also hated him because he was considered a low-born, dirty-blooded peasant.“He said I walk two days…”

“And if I tell you to walk today,” the Secretary suddenly said, stepping in front of him. Aging hands settled on his shoulders, caging him in though he felt no threat. “Would you walk if I ordered you to do it?”

This wasn’t the Secretary’s project. He would be going against everything that he had worked, fought and bled for. In the grand scheme of things, he was no more regarded than the next agent of his rank and he could be put into play at any moment. He could be put in position to die if ordered to, or he could be placed strategically to excel and move higher in the ranks. His own contributions were based on skill, intellect, guts and a bit of luck.

His jaw worked as he stared into the Secretary’s blue eyes. He knew that there was no doubt a kind of rivalry between the heads of HYDRA, that while they were united in purpose, they had enough ego to want it to be their name carved on the plaque that would mark the true head of HYDRA since Red Skull. For those of them as foot-soldiers, they were to be put in play as the heads saw fit.

“No,” he said simply. He took the immediate backhand across his cheek with just a simple inhale through his nose. “You’ve put me under Von Strucker as a candidate for Rewind. When it’s my time to walk, I walk.”

The Secretary regarded him and his pink cheek with an unreadable expression. He didn’t bother to try to puzzle it out, but he stiffened when the strawberry blond dropped hands to once again fuss with his collar and smooth his tie into place. He stood for it, even as the Secretary adjusted the straps of his suspenders. He even stood for his cuffs being adjusted without complaint, biding his time to respond to the man in front of him.

“You’re a good soldier,” the Secretary finally said.

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, nodding his head to the praise.

“To succeed, Agent Rumlow, you’re going to have to be more than a soldier. You’re gifted with the fact that not just air flows between your ears, and you have impeccable instincts for survival.” The Secretary was watching him intently. “You have to _want_ this, and you have to lay all your guts on the line to take what is owed to you.”

Nothing was owed to him, yet the sheer idea was tantalizing. He wanted this opportunity badly, though it was difficult to wrap his mind around the sheer size and scale in which he would be working. He would literally be shaping the mission for himself, making judgements on the information that he had and picking the best path. He had to be prepared to make hard calls; he had to be prepared to give up everything to succeed. He liked to think himself prepared for that, but until he was in that position, he couldn’t know for certain.

The Secretary seemed to read that in his expression. “You will succeed if you set your mind to it. I would trust this to no one else.”

They both turned at the sound of hard-soled boots striking the floor and Baron Von Strucker was lining them up. The man looked slightly older than him, but he knew for a fact that there was something… off about the man. He stepped aside to allow the two heads to converse without his presence.

“I had heard you arrived, but I couldn’t believe zat you had zee ability to still slip away from your precious Department of State. You are still an old fox zen,” Von Strucker said with a heavy accent, lifting a hand to wave him away. “Alexander Pierce, a pleasure as always. A true comrade with impeccable bloodlines.”

Brock didn’t have a chance to walk away before the Secretary’s hand gripped his left elbow tightly. “Wolfgang, you know that I wouldn’t miss how close to success you are coming. I have backed this project from the beginning.”

“Yes, curious zat,” Von Strucker said, and the man’s cold gaze flicked to him, the scar on the man’s left cheek puckering with the narrowed eyes aimed at him. “However, success may be further off zan ve vant. Zee Tesseract acts like a fickle voman, always changing Her mind. She is misbehaving, but like any voman, give Her enough time and She’ll come around.”

Secretary Pierce offered a smile and glanced at the door behind them. “Why don’t you show me your set-up?”

There was a razor smile that the Baron wore, but if it had the ability to cut the Secretary, it didn’t work this time. Instead, Von Strucker gestured with a hand to the doors and pointedly pushed between himself and the Secretary to break the hold on his arm. He had his eyes averted when the cold glance of dismissal was passed to him and there was a warm hand between his shoulders a moment later as the Secretary firmly propelled him forward.

Brock had never experienced a power struggle where he was the object being pushed around. It was not something that he wanted to endure more than this. Von Strucker’s dislike of him was single-minded, but the Secretary’s sudden obvious preference was confusing. He suspected it was done to show Pierce had some control even in a project not in the older man’s hands.

The room was a vast circular one topped with a very specific dome to dispel excess energy produced during the test phase. There were large computer consoles lining most of the walls, large bulky machines that beeped, flashed and made soft information churning sounds. Large insulated piping and wires snaked the floor towards the monument of the entire operation situated in the very direct middle of the room and directly beneath the domed ceiling. While the flashing lights and switches no doubt were supposed to draw attention given that they were the main operation of the entire process, every pair of eyes were always somehow drawn to the center of it all.

In the very middle of the room was a complex metal contraption that looked more like a garden arbour than a gateway, which stood at least seven feet tall. There were intricate cables wrapped around the metal framework and great beehive like conductors that jutted out from the interior of the arbour, and, even from across the room, they buzzed softly with activity. Blue light occasionally snapped and shot towards the ground which might have been padded with some kind of industrial rubber to absorb electricity, but he was too far away to tell. The insulated wires added the colours reds, yellows, greens, blues and blacks like electrical vines just waiting for enough energy to bloom blue flowers of energy.

Ten feet behind the metal arbour was raised ring where fine wires held a glowing blue cube into place, the illusion of the fabled power object suspended magically in air just a new show of man’s tickled imagination. He knew with just a glance that the Tesseract was here, and it seemed like certain sacrilege to look at it directly. He did, eyeing the crackle of energy and the fact that four technicians were standing with fine rods poking at the wires that held the Tesseract in place. Each time a wire was touch, it was clear there was energy firing back with the way that the technician’s arm jerked to control the rod from shooting away to the side.

He was still being directed to a viewing room by the Secretary, and it seemed to him that Von Strucker had chosen to ignore his existence as a breach of carefully created protocols. Obviously, it wasn’t worth a break in careful friendly façade between the two heads present. He had no doubt that he would pay for this in some subtle way later.

He ascended the three stairs to the secure observation room and took a spot at the back of the small room that had only a communication console and monitoring equipment. He folded his arms across his chest and studied the layout of the room. Now that he had a better look, he could see black rubber ten feet on the other side of the arbour, obviously where the candidates stood.

“How many candidates have failed?” The Secretary already knew the answer. This was all pleasantries.

“Fourteen, but ve have ten more.” Von Strucker was not a man who wasted time. “Once ve have reset the Tesseract, I believe ve can stimulate Her to produce the right quality and quantity of energy that ve require.”

“How are your transducers standing up to the sheer volume of energy?”

“Ve have had to replace zem several times, but I have been assured zat is normal. Ve aren’t seeking to convert zee energy to a condensed form but consolidate it specifically to open a doorway between time and space. Zee technology is good enough, but it is zee Tesseract who is being difficult,” Von Strucker said with a wave of a hand. The man’s scarred face turned slightly as if to make certain that he hadn’t moved.

The Secretary was leaning hands on the monitoring console and leaning towards the observation window. “The last time the Tesseract was used in this rigorous way was in the nineteen-forties. No doubt there are a few kinks from sitting at the bottom of the ocean.”

“She haz been in storage for many years,” Von Strucker replied coldly. “Vhatever fussiness She haz developed vill be worked out. Already ve are close.”

“You’re certain?” There was something in the Secretary’s tone that just hedged on disapproved disbelief.

Von Strucker leveled the Secretary with a cold glare. “Zis machinery requires careful calibration, but I don’t believe you understand zee miracle ve are striving for. You are a _politician_ , albeit a very good one, even if you were a spy before zen.”

The Secretary finally pushed off of the metal console and folded aging hands behind the man’s back. He didn’t dare move a muscle or otherwise draw attention to himself. “Then calibrate it and prove to us that the past is the place where we must correct ourselves. If you cannot, I suggest you move aside from other projects.”

“Zis vill vork,” the Baron said with a cutting tone.

“Then perhaps you haven’t provided the Tesseract what _She_ needs to open the way. Make Joshua Hodge walk,” the Secretary said. That wasn’t a suggestion either.

“You don’t get to order me on my own project, Alexander Pierce, least of all vith a peasant child.” Von Strucker looked on the verge of hitting the Secretary who simply watched the Baron with a pleasant controlled air. “I determine vho valks and vhen.” The Baron’s eyes suddenly locked on him. “Or perhaps I shall send your only provided candidate? You can vatch him evaporate before your eyes. Vy you chose such an unremarkable dirty-blooded child is beyond me. I had such hopes you’d put forvard a vorthy candidate.”

The Secretary also turned eyes on him, clearly unmoved by the idea of the kind of death that awaited him. “Agent Rumlow would make the walk.”

Von Strucker sneered. The expression twisted up the ropy scar on the Baron’s cheek. “You sound confident.”

“I sent the best man for the job,” the Secretary said simply as if that were all the fact required to win this argument. Then, as if changing tracks to keep the peace, the Secretary went back to leaning on the console and looking out as the team went about their checks. “I always wanted a son, you know.”

The Baron’s anger was drawn back in like water being absorbed from the sand in a desert. “Two daughters, is it?”

“Oh yes, beautiful girls both of them. I couldn’t be prouder,” the Secretary said. He caught a prideful hint of a smile when the strawberry blond looked over at the Baron. “It’s just not the same though, is it?”

“No,” Von Strucker agreed softly. “It’s not. A man can be proud of his daughter, but it is not in the same vay zat a man can be proud of his son.”

“How is your son doing?” Was that a hint of jealousy he picked up from the Secretary?

“Werner is finding his vay. He does vell in his endeavors and grows fit and strong, a child I vill one day be proud of I’m sure.” The Baron’s gaze was fixed on the room beyond. “He was not candidate material because of his age, but he vill succeed in time vhen given the opportunity.”

The Secretary nodded, but there was something in the older man’s face that seemed to hint at an age old internal argument. He dared to shift slightly to ease his position, but neither of the heads of HYDRA bothered to even acknowledge him. Instead, the Secretary seemed to be lost in thoughts and the Baron was watching Pierce with a keen interest.

“I’d like to see the process, Wolfgang.”

The scarred Baron considered for a time and then nodded stiffly. “I vill organize somezing. It vill not take long. You may vait here.” With that, Von Strucker walked out of the observation room and shut the door, clearly refusing him the opportunity to make the walk.

Rumlow wasn’t certain if he was relieved or frustrated. Instead, he stepped away from the wall to take spot that the Baron had recently vacated, looking out as technicians nodding to orders and began to set up the Tesseract for activation. It took only a few minutes for the rest of the technical team to walk into the room and move to the consoles to begin testing and calibrating. He was probably the only candidate that was going to see this before ever making the walk himself.

He was prepared to watch this in silence, the file of photos long forgotten in his room. He instead folded his hands behind his back and watched the proceedings. Technicians called numbers to one another, the Tesseract hummed even at this distance, and the team settled in for something that had by now become routine for them.

“You were adopted, were you not?” He had not entirely expected the Secretary to ask after personal details of his life.

“Yes sir,” he replied, trying to keep the coldness from his voice. This was not a subject that he discussed with anyone.

“Your biological mother was a nurse,” the Secretary said. He said nothing in reply; he couldn’t say he remembered her well. “She passed when you were young?”

Brock gritted his teeth and forced his face to relax. “I was four, sir.”

“And your father?”

Now this was definitely not a subject that he wanted to discuss, especially with a head of HYDRA and certainly no matter how much he respected the Secretary. “He died when I was nine.” Old enough to remember what being beaten with a metal coat hanger that had been heated cherry red on an oven element was like anyway.

“I knew your mother. She was a kind woman, but I was under the impression that working with half men took their toll on her.” He shifted uncomfortably, more because of the admittance that the Secretary knew his mother than because of the subject of her work. He didn’t know a lot about it, and he had been angry enough in her passing to never look into it.

Still, curiosity picked at him. “You knew her well?”

“As well as any soldier might,” the Secretary said. He gaped openly. “She was kind enough to change my bandages gently.”

His mind played over the what battles were being fought in and around the time when he was born, since his mother had stopped nursing after he had come along. That much he knew because it had been reminded to him almost constantly by his father. The one bad decision that led to the road of depression, drinking and finally the end of it all. His father really liked that story; it came often with closed fists.

“You served in ‘Nam,” he ventured.

“Yes, though I don’t acknowledge it often.” The Secretary turned to look at him, now ignoring the movement of technicians and the occasional spark of the Tesseract. “You look a lot like your mother, but your manner is more your father.”

It was only because he had seen the comment coming that he mastered his reaction before it happened. His shoulders still tensed, and he gave the Secretary an openly cold stare. “I’m nothing like my old man.”

The Secretary smiled pleasantly at him, as if waiting for another snarling outburst from him. It seemed to amuse the man that he bristled at this probing, and he suspected it was some kind of test. He was no doubt failing it completely. “You’re more like him than you realize.”

“You knew my old man too?”

“I am your old man,” the Secretary said. Just like that. Just throwing out there.

For a moment, Brock didn’t process the statement and then his expression hardened as he closed off. He knew better than to rise to the bait, and the insanity of the claim chaffed him as little else could. His hatred for his father was nothing to tease or joke to him about, and not even the Secretary was allowed that inroad. He was stronger than the miserable situation of his upbringing, and he was not about to be mocked for it either.

The Secretary was clearly measuring his reaction. Beyond Pierce, Joshua Hodge was being brought in dressed similarly as he was. The guy was clearly getting final instructions from Von Strucker personally.

“You’re full of shit,” he said with a curl of his lip. “Go fuck yourself, _sir._ ”

“I got you on your mother in 1970, spring of that year actually. Our tryst lasted two weeks before I was shipped home,” the Secretary said with the air and tone of a man speaking on the weather. The air of a man who had no care for how close to snapping he was. “She returned State-side three months later, and she informed me at the time.”

His molars were grinding together as he waited for the punchline to this joke, though he had not known the Secretary to make jokes outside of rumour. Apparently there was a time and a place at fundraisers and cocktail parties for the kind of high class social tittering. He had never been there, and he certainly wasn’t interested in finding out about it _now_.

“Sir…” he said firmly as if a word from him was going to stop this potential for violence.

The Secretary looked over at him and smiled. “You can keep your mouth shut right now,” the strawberry blond said, tone hinting that the potential for violence was very much two-ways here. “You’ll regret not hearing this, I assure you.”

Brock made every effort to crush Pierce’s skull in with his non-existent mind powers. The best he managed was a disgruntled heated stare.

“I was engaged at the time, and she returned to the man who you currently consider your sire,” the Secretary said. “It was an arrangement that worked out until you were born. What a colicy, fussy baby you were, and you can count yourself lucky you weren’t throttled in your crib by month two. By six months, your mother had become depressed and subservient. I kept an eye on them.”

There was a pause in the insane story as Joshua was checked over and clothing, items and story were tested. Even with the door closed, he could hear the sound of technicians calling to each other various test phases. Joshua was trembling slightly.

“You grew in a poisonous environment, and it would either break you or make you into the material that the world needed. A single dose of thirty sleeping pills and a bottle of vodka, and there you were alone with that abusive angry drunk. Still, I left you. It was only when you got old enough to become of interest to him that I arranged his demise,” the Secretary said but was watching the candidate.

Brock had the blazing urge to stab the knife hidden against his calf into the Secretary’s neck. He might not stop at one stab either, and then his clothing would be ruined. He would definitely be willing to take the dressing down that he would get for ruining his uniform.

“You were adopted by close associates of mine, and you were allowed to run wild and develop the skills I deemed necessary.” The Secretary suddenly turned to him. He was a single moment away from imbedding his fist into Pierce’s face. “It’s in the blood, Brock.”

“Shut up,” he finally snapped. He took the backhand with barely a turn of his head. “Don’t you…”

The Secretary moved quickly for a man in the fourth decade who looked slightly soft of body, and his rage flared when his throat was seized, but there was a bare blade pressed into his inner thigh with startling intent. “You are my blood, and because of that, I’m ensuring the success of this mission. Did you never wonder why you were my apparent favourite for this?”

He admitted that he hadn’t thought of it much. He had assumed that it was virtue of his skills, his ruthlessness and his ability to survive better than most. He hadn’t considered that he was just another cog in the machine to be put into play when Pierce needed him most. If he allowed his brain to unjam, he might even recognize the arrogance and perhaps the beauty of the entire plan. Instead, he was just plain furious beyond coherent words.

“Listen to me, the success of this mission depends on not just what a man can do but what he’s willing to do,” the Secretary whispered, holding him roughly and with fingers tightening on his throat. “The Tesseract is an energy source, Rumlow. It needs to know only where and when to open the door. My father served in the 101st Airborne division. Where do you think Hodge’s grandfather served?”

Suddenly it all made too much screaming sense, helped by his rage suppressing other thoughts. His eyes flicked from Pierce’s intent face as the pieces fell into the appropriate place and then his gaze turned to where the Tesseract was being primed and readied begin. He couldn’t help his gaze returning to the Secretary’s, and there was something so familiar about the set of the man’s mouth that had him tearing himself away from the Secretary and coughing.

“I’m your pawn,” he snarled.

“You’re my assurance of a future,” the Secretary corrected. “You are the most ruthless man that I’ve ever seen. There is nothing that you cannot do.”

Rumlow shoved passed the Secretary towards the door as the priming phase ended for the test. He was not letting some low-life like Hodge take his place now that he thought he knew the secret. “Stand and watch,” he snarled.

“Brock.” Something in the Secretary’s voice caused his head to whip around. “Just remember that the key has and always will be Rogers.” He lifted his hand and caught the bag the Secretary threw at him, feeling the heavy weight of coins and the rustle of bills. “It’s in the blood, Brock.”

He lingered in the doorway even as he heard the countdown. “How will you know if I succeed?”

“I won’t exist,” Pierce said simply. “None of this will, but you, Brock, will exist.”

“And so your bloodline continues,” he said softly. “Did you love her?”

“Not particularly,” the Secretary admitted. “But I was ever fond of you. The son I always wanted thriving in the worst conditions outside of war and famine and disaster.”

That was actually more than he had had growing up. It didn’t make this situation something that he could process right now, but he still felt cold fury at Pierce. “I hope you suffer before this ends.”

The Secretary inclined a head towards him in acknowledgement and smiled. He turned away and shoved open the door to the observation room.

“Oh and Brock, one last thing…”

“What?”

“I expect grandchildren,” the Secretary said, eyes glittering maliciously.

Rumlow let out a cry of fury and slammed the door, startling a few technicians from their stations but also drawing Joshua’s attention from staring at the strange metal arbour that was humming loudly. He stormed down, ignoring the hands that tried to grab him away from making for the candidate, shaking them off even as a hand snapped a metal wrench from a work bench as he went.

He made it Joshua as the Tesseract started to fill the arbour with blue crackling energy, and there was a yell from Von Strucker to remove him. He glanced down and noted for the first time that where they stood was not in fact a rubber mat but a smear of old black ash. He looked up at Joshua who appeared to have realized for the first time the same thing.

“We’re going to die, Rumlow,” Hodge said, trembling and pupils dilating with fright.

“You, yes, me… no, I’m going to the past like it was planned,” he snarled and suddenly wrenched Joshua from the designated spot towards the arbour.

“STOP HIM,” Von Strucker yelled over the cacophony of noise being put out by the transducers trying to contain and consolidate the energy put out by the Tesseract. “Shut zis down!”

“The energy is surging!”

“It’s too much, too fast, sir! It will be too dangerous to shut it off abruptly. There is no where for the energy to dissipate!”

Brock hauled Joshua around the crackling arbour, the metal wrench still in his hand and the other man suddenly tried to pull away from him in fear. He bashed Hodge in the head with the wrench and dragged the stunned man over to the Tesseract which was putting out enough light, heat and energy to be painful.

He twisted around so that Hodge’s back was to the apparatus holding the Tesseract and stared at the other man’s eyes which were focusing and starting to bulge with fear again. He brought the wrench down on Joshua’s head once, twice, three times and then a fourth just for good measure, but it wasn’t necessary by then. Only the sting of fingernails clawing at his cheek drew momentary notice, but he didn’t care, too angry to want to do anything more than succeed.

The other man’s skull dented and split, but more important for his purpose, the blood spattered back against the Tesseract, which sizzled and began to hum even louder. The smell of burning flesh began to fill the room rapidly as he just shoved Joshua’s body into the beam of energy that Tesseract emitted towards the metal arbour. The corpse burst into ash in a single moment, but the energy from the Tesseract spiked, becoming wider and changing colour to a darker blue.

“It’s a surge!”

“It’s too much, too soon!”

“SHUT IT DOWN!”

Abandoning the bloody wrench, he walked around to the other side of the device again, pausing long enough to grab the pack that Joshua had left on the floor when he had begun to drag the other man away from their starting point. He slung it over his shoulder and ignored the yells of the technicians trying to figure out how to stabilize the energy which crackled and then solidified into a concave disc protruding from the arbour. It pulsed and then seemed to stabilize.

At first, he saw nothing but blotches of light and what looked like some kind of weird wisps. It took him a moment to realize it was the stars and cosmos. He reached up and ran a hand through his hair, realizing absently that the dress coordinator would berate him for messing up her careful styling.

“Get away from zere, you worthless peasant!”

“It’s going to blow!”

“The transducers are coming apart! We can’t control the energy.”

“You can’t cut the power from a source that misbehaves, sir!”

The image swam in front of him, taking up all of his attention. It materialized to some kind of street, but it was grainy like the old films. People were walking down the streets in the image, but they moved either too slow or too fast to be normal. He swallowed anything that might be considered fear down and glanced away from the image.

Alexander Pierce stood on the top level, hands resting on the railing watching him intently. He stared at the aged man and suddenly flung up his middle finger at the man who claimed to be his father. Fury filled him when the Secretary simply smiled and gave him a mocking bow in return, and it was enough of a slight to drive him forward the two steps between himself and the concave disk.

The moment that his hand reached out and slammed into it, his world dissolved into flashes of lights and the drag in all directions that threatened to pull him apart one cell at a time. It was his fury over the story that Pierce had told him that held him together, a sort of righteous anger of a child long denied the pat on the head for a job well done. At that moment, it was all that he needed, all that filled his mind as his world turned confusing and painful around him.

It seemed to go on and on forever, a cold and a complete lack of air where only his anger warmed him and kept him from panicking. Lights blurred around him, whispering and pulling at him, trying to find a way to his mind, which was blank with anything but fury at this point. He didn’t know up from down or one side to the other, but he knew that something horrible was happening to his body. It was being picked apart one cell at a time, plucked one at a time away from him until he wasn’t certain there was anything left of him but his indignant anger…

...and then he was slammed back together in a single savage teeth-jarring moment.

Rumlow’s hand caught on the cold solidness of a wall. He drew a breath he didn’t realize that he needed until that moment and almost collapsed to the pavement. His head swam with nothing and everything at the same time, and his first contribution to his new situation was to lean over and vomit everything that he could into the shadow of an alleyway.

He heaved between gasping breaths for air, his shoulders trembling and his knees threatening to give way under him. He stayed just like that for a very long time, finally bracing his shoulder against the wall to relieve his arm from the work of having to hold up his body. A cold suffused him as he stood there staring at the grisly scene of his last meal, half-digested and looking about as appetizing now as it had the first time he had consumed it.

Slowly, he managed to push himself off of corner of the building and drink in some of his surroundings, which at first seemed confusing and off-putting. It was just like the pictures he had studied but in full colour: the buildings, the vehicles, the streets themselves. It was all as it was supposed to be, and yet the reality of it shook him as his eyes drank in the sheer magnitude of differences that black and white photos failed to convey.

He stumbled away from the wall to a trash can and dug in until he found an old paper. Even that felt different under his hands, but he forced himself to focus his shaking hands so that he could look for a date.

_May 26, 1943_

Brock released the paper back into the trash bin and leaned over it to vomit again, though it was mostly shaking heaving. He spat several times just to give his shattered thoughts time to collect themselves, even as he found his gaze staring at the paper front which declared the Stark Expo commencing in just over two weeks time.

He inhaled passed the acidic burn in his nostrils and was forced to spit again as mucous and other unmentioned aspects of his previous meal filled his mouth. He didn’t dare wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve, just as he didn’t dare lift a hand to his slightly mused but still greased hair.

Instead, he convinced himself to stand up. He was wasting valuable time and worse, he considered himself vulnerable out in the open.

Rumlow shifted his vintage pack on his shoulder and glanced around. He knew the itinerary by heart now, and he forced his legs into motion away from the scene of his arrival, ignoring the burnt marks etched into the pavement. There was no going back. The present as he had known it no longer existed.

His first objective was finding Edward Calstorm. His second was Heinz Kruger. His third step was finding Steven G. Rogers.

*****

Brock was just adding a small lump of sugar to his coffee when Fred Clemson entered the small cozy room with him, dashing in a grey suit and red tie. It had taken him almost the full two weeks to maneuver himself to getting in contact with the man, one of the few known American spies that history had recorded. The man was also a very important aspect of HYDRA, and that made the man very important to him.

He shook hands with Fred, though he felt the man’s gaze flick down to his clothes. He was clearly not what the assassin was expecting. “Mister Pierce, what can I do for you?”

He resumed his seat with his coffee and saucer, noting that the china was the kind that old grandmother’s collected and told stories about. He stirred his coffee and watched Clemson smiling like this was a planned meeting and not something he had forced the entire way.

“You’re with the State Department?”

“I believe you know that already,” Fred said with a very good American accent. “You were the one to contact me saying you had information relating to national security.”

“There’s a spy in the United States, passing information to the Germans,” he said softly, watching for reaction. There was none. “This spy is going to assassinate someone on June 22 of 1943.”

Clemson just continued to smile, but the edges had brittled. “That’s a considerable accusation. I’ll need the name and proof of your allegations and pass it to properly authority.”

He set his cup and saucer on his knee and nodded his head, turning to rifle in his bag for said proof, which was really nothing in particular. He could feel the assassin’s interest intent on him, no doubt trying to discern what his play was. “Do I get rewarded for this?”

“If the information is viable, you will be rewarded yes.”

“I only want one thing,” he said as he pulled out a packet of folded paper and set it on his other knee. He faced Fred and smiled. “I want to be a candidate on Project Rebirth.”

There was a momentary flicker of surprise that passed through the other man’s face, eyes darting to the packet of paper. “I’m sorry but....”

“Let’s drop the pleasantries,” he said simply, though his smile was as dashing as ever. He had his pistol out at the same time as Clemson, but he managed to raise his to head level while Fred’s gun would at most hit him in the hip or low abdomen. “You’re Heinz Kruger, one of the Skull’s special agents and by next week, you’re going to be given the green light to assassinate Doctor Abraham Erskine after proof of his serum is witnessed.”

Kruger stared balefully at him, sizing him up. Clearly the assassin had been given that green-light, but the Heinz was waiting for the perfect opportunity to get the most out of the situation. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I know my facts well enough,” he replied with a cocksure smirk. “You get me in on Project Rebirth as a candidate, and I won’t stand in your way.”

“Are you an agent of the great cause?”

“No, not officially, but I will be soon enough once I have a face-to-face meeting with the Skull,” Brock said. That meeting was a long time off though, but he had to set himself up well before then.

“Who are you really, Mister Pierce?” Heinz was clearly looking for a name to look into.

“My name is Brock Rumlow. I was born in 1971, and I’m here to make certain that you HYDRA chumps don’t fuck up a second time,” he said simply, his smile so dashing he knew that even the Secretary would be proud..

Heinz looked at him as if he had taken partial leave of his senses. They weren’t lowering their guns from each other either, but he could tell that Kruger was debating if it was worth eliminating him. “You speak of nothing but warm air.”

He leaned back in his chair, his gun still poised to blow the other assassin’s head off and ruin some really nice chairs. “I happen to admire the Skull’s work with the Tesseract,” he said with a simple shrug.

Consternation flooded Kruger’s expression before it was shuffled off, but Heinz lowered the gun again. He was leveled a new measured look as the assassin decided what play to make with him, and it was only when the other man steepled fingers that he lowered his own gun and returned to his coffee. He continued to regard Kruger in the same manner as he was watched, but he was confident that the other HYDRA agent would see things his way.

It was clear that Heinz came to a decision when the man took up a cup a coffee and drank down half of it with a single quaff. “At the Stark Expo in New York City, you will enlist for the military there. Doctor Jaramin owes me a favour, and I will see you get your place.”

Brock inclined his head slightly. “Good because the candidate that I’m replacing is already dead.”

Kruger paused, but then a slow smile lit the man’s mouth and face but didn’t reach Heinz’s eyes. Those eyes only held a respectful cruelty. “You are a very strange man, Mister Pierce, but I respect your kind of strange. If you are half as ruthless as you seem, you will go far.”

“I guarantee I’m more ruthless than you think,” he replied with a smirk.

They finished their coffee in silence, eyeing another as two stray hungry dogs watch the last scrap of food set right between them. He made no move to take things to a level that he might later regret as he had to let Kruger try and fail to acquire the serum. Some things in history were best staying the same, and as Pierce reminded him more than once, Rogers was the key to everything here.

He set his cup and saucer aside on the small table beside him and picked lightly at the doily there. It was strange how wealth in this day and age came from the strangest things. He still rose when Kruger did, expecting a handshake to seal their deal.

Instead, he raised an eyebrow when Heinz thrust both arms high in the air and growled, “hail HYDRA” like it was a matter of utmost pride. He had to respect a guy would risk discovery facing a fellow agent, even if he had never admitted to it personally, just hinted with technicalities.

“Uh… no,” he replied, holding up a hand. “We kind of gave that nonsense salute up in the sixties. We’re now the steely handshake and ear whispering kind of group.”

Heinz gave him a flat, disapproving stare. “I see.”

“I don’t think you do, given you didn’t have to watch HYDRA implode with bad decisions, bad leadership, and arrogance. We’re a little more of a secretive lot now, but we are no less loyal to the cause. Hence why I’m here having coffee with you,” Rumlow said with an undertone of steel in his voice.

He grabbed his pack, slipped the paper packet into it and slung the bag over his shoulder. He checked the security of his pistol next, the first thing that he had actually bought in this time, and so far, he had only had to discharge it once. It was a good thing too as bullets were really hard to find right now, but he didn’t mind being conservative. He was as good with a knife or fist as he was with a gun if called to do so. He preferred to save his need for violence when it would serve him best, not before, and he’d have his fill of blood soon enough.

He headed for the door, only to be stopped by Heinz’s question. “If you know the outcome of the war as you claim, do I see the end of it?”

Rumlow smiled and shrugged his shoulders as if helpless. “I can’t tell you, champ. I wouldn’t want to alter things more than I already have. Hail HYDRA,” he said with a wink. “Oh, and don’t write my name down or send information about me to other agents. Where I’m going… the blanket of anonymity is where I will thrive.” He inclined his head, tipped his hat, and strode out.

As long as Kruger died for the cause, that was all that mattered to him. Rogers would become famous based on that venture, and it would allow Erskine’s pet project to slowly gain the use and confidence of that new body and be of the most use to the Red Skull. He could deliver Steve Rogers on a golden platter and see that the future of true freedom was ushered in. Nothing else mattered to him.

Now he could enlist, be assigned where he wanted to be, and, if possible, meet Steve Rogers all the same night. It was an opportunity he wouldn’t waste.

*****

He was shivering despite the fact that he couldn’t feel anything related to temperature in his dreams. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his small arms curled around them, examining the large scabs on his knees that were healing but cracked from bending his legs. He didn’t remember falling, but he was certain it had happened. Maybe that was why he knew he was shivering too.

He absently picked at the edge of one of the thick mats of scabbing with a dirty fingernail, ignoring the fly that buzzed around his head. His sensitive ears picked up the sound of stomping in the house, the heavy gait of an individual looking for trouble. He was hidden under the wooden porch, a small space only he could fit.

He winced when the edge of the scab rose, frowning as blood beaded out from the now exposed aspect of his healing injury. He poked at it with a finger, smearing the ruby liquid across his skin in his bored avoidance state.

He was still shivering. He still dreaming too.

Suddenly, beyond his wayward imagination, a pooling droplet of blood from his knee popped up and hung in the air. He stared at it, blinking disbelieving eyes as the small bead tumbled and shivered in the air right in front of his face, dancing like a very strange red bubble.

Brock reached out and poked it with a finger, and it popped. Unexpectedly, it spattered over his hand and even reached his face. There had been in no way that amount of blood hanging in the air, but it coated him, and to his horrified amazement, it plucked at him. Noise filled his head like a soft tittering woman and then the skin of his fingers began to dissolve, flicking off like bubbles too. He blinked when he realized the same was happening to his face.

He inhaled sharply, on the edge of a wailing noise that caught in his throat as his hand began to disappear into blinks of blue light. He looked up at the porch wood above him, seeing the old webs of spiders and dead ants up there.

He was coming apart bit-by-bit, one cell at a time. His nose was gone! His skin was following even though none of the bubble of blood had marked it. He shifted, frightened and unable to breathe properly.

He did what any other three-year-old would do. “Mummy,” he squealed loudly, flapping his hands in the air.

“...was that him…?”

“...n-no, Brock is over at the neighbour’s yard…”

“Mummy,” he squealed again, high pitched with fright. Why was he falling apart?

“That was that little brat! Get him in here! He’s got a mess to clean up!”

“...he’s just a boy…” There was a sudden grunt of pain from the house, a female moan that ended with a soft sob. Another blow followed…

Brock jerked awake, struggling in the tangled sheets around his legs and then freezing when he breathed hard through his nose. His back was flat on the floor, his skin clammy with a sheen of sweat from his nightmare, and he blinked his eyes rapidly in the darkness of the lodging that he had rented for the night.

Suddenly, he was grasping at his own hands, counting his digits and searching for signs of damage to his skin and bones. There was nothing. His skin was whole. Upon inspection, his nose was exactly where it should have been and he could breathe just fine. He was shivering until he had tightened his muscles to force the primal action to stop, and then he sat up slowly to untangle himself from the blanket and sheets twisted around his legs.

He rubbed his face with the heel of his hand once free and sighed heavily. He absently passed his fingers through his hair next, dispelling the last effects of the dream from his mind. It had been a long time.

He pushed himself up from the floor and padded to the small bathroom, taking a piss to give himself something to do. He turned his head as a phantom of the soft tittering noise caressed his ears, but he was alone in the dark.

No, he was completely alone in this time. He had only just come to realize that, and only his drive to succeed and plans he had already set in motion kept him from focusing on just how alone he was. No one to advise him. No one to chide his mistakes. No one to take the fall for him. He was the only agent of HYDRA who knew what would come to pass with his failure.

Suddenly, he was leaning forward and emptying his stomach into the toilet, his fingers gripping the side of the porcelain bowl. He spat several times and shook his head. This was going to be a very long week indeed.

“...for HYDRA…” he whispered in the dark.

*****


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another chapter. I suppose that I should mention for the sake of clarity that chapters are generally (not completely) based in either Rumlow's or Steve's POV, though there is a bit a mixing to get some background and because I can't help myself trying to get into the heads of villains.
> 
> Also, while probably obvious, there are events written in this fic which are different from those scene in both the movie and described from the comics. I'm avoiding the complications of time paradox and back lash and that sort of thing, but I wanted to clarify that these changes are because the timeline is subtly changing because Rumlow is back where he shouldn't be. Events like details in battles or the number of people involved may be changed. Let's all go and blame Rumlow for changing things up. It also allows me creative liberty to keep things the same or change events for my own imagination. La la la.

*****

_1A._

Steve paused at the bottom of the steps and looked at the thick paper in his hands just to see that single stamp again. It still read easily _1A_ for acceptance, and he felt his chest tighten when he realized for the fourth time that he was now part of the United States military. He had finally earned his chance to prove that he was like every other man willing to put everything on the line for a principle. A small part of him also needed to prove that he could to those who had always doubted him.

His thumb rubbed over the paper as if waiting for the ink to fade into the usual _4F_ that he had received five times before. It was still real, and he was really going to boot camp. He had been given a chance by Doctor Erskine.

_Finally._

He felt a momentary pang of regret that he was so elated when he had ducked out on Bucky and the double date. A part of him didn’t want to face being left behind. A larger part didn’t want to say goodbye again when he had to acknowledge that the next time he saw his best friend could be when Bucky was being shipped home in a wooden box. They had said their goodbyes and that seemed almost enough to chase down the fear that this was a battle he couldn’t contribute a single thing to until he had gotten to one of the many forming fronts of the battle lines.

Steve had a week to shut this part of his life down in preparation for being moved to Wheaton, New Jersey for specialized training. According to his papers, he was part of the Specialized Science Reserve, shortened to the SSR. He had only a small amount of time to show himself the best candidate in the running for Project Rebirth, which Doctor Erskine was heading.

He wanted to shuffle through all the papers in order to better convince himself how real this was. The packet was thick with creamy paper and dark official letterheads, yet he found himself almost instinctively referring back to his enlistment acceptance and staring at that big black _1A_.

Someone jostled his shoulder hard, and he stumbled forward. He had to catch himself on a lamppost and ended up dropping all of his papers to the ground, but it was the only way to keep himself on his feet.

Immediately he rallied and turned to face the person who was responsible for shoving him. His glare was fierce and in his mind, well-earned, but it froze on his face as he sighted another man bending to collect his papers up with an apologetic look.

“Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” the young man said and offered his assignment package back to him. He stared. “Uh, are you going to take your stuff?”

“Oh! Yes, sorry, I was just…” he trailed off lamely and hastily took the package from the dark-haired man. He caught himself staring again, though he couldn’t for the life of him understand why that would be. He simply found himself awkward, like those times he had actually been interested in one of the dames Bucky had set him up with but had no idea how to proceed to charming her. His mouth felt dry, his palms suddenly clammy, and he resisted the urge to sweep his fingers through his hair nervously.

The man couldn’t have been much older than he was, but was full in the shoulders, arms and chest in a way he always desired to be. Unlike most of the men that he had seen, there was a hint of dark stubble on the man’s cheeks and chin, but the way that it was tended made it clear that it was purposeful, giving the other a rugged appearance. Dark hair was neatly combed towards the back, though it wasn’t particularly in a style that he recognized, but there was something drawing about the air about the other which didn’t come to him in words.

The smile that he was given was much like how Bucky would smile, but the similarities stopped there. In fact, aside from the cool confidence, this man was very little like his best friend but still drew him in a very similar fashion.

“You enlisted,” the dark-haired man said, stating a fact without condemnation, dismissal or mockery. “Congratulations, Mister…”

He realized the other man had his enlistment acceptance form and was reading his name, and he found himself very warm despite being in the open air and the shift of people moving past them. “Steve… it’s just Steve.”

Suddenly a large calloused hand was thrust out to him, and it was so utterly strange to take it without receiving any sort of flick of eyes or expression change that indicated that his appearance was unexpected, displeasing, or required close inspection. “You are…?”

“Brock,” the dark-haired man replied with a charismatic smile. “I just enlisted as well. It even looked like we’ll be going to the same place for boot camp.”

“Camp Lehigh?”

“That’s the one,” Brock said and dropped the grip on his hand. It tingled even as it returned to his side. “Though, why all the way in New Jersey… that feels like punishment.”

Steve chuckled because he had to agree, but then again, he had always wanted to travel and see the country and even the world beyond. This just seemed like a good start in his mind, given that the military would be providing transport, uniforms and supplies. He certainly couldn’t complain about a free ride where he’d be in perfect position to enjoy the countryside.

He licked his lips as he tucked his package under his arm so that he could free up his hands to slip them into his pockets. “Did you come to the Stark Expo just to enlist?”

“No, I came to see what we could expect for the future,” Brock said. There was a laugh, and he thought there was a hint of mocking in it. “I expected a little more, I admit. The war is propelling us forward with technological advancements that might kill us all and we’re supposed to be excited about floating cars.”

He hadn’t really thought about it like that, and the car, while exciting, did suddenly seem a little strange to base a future around. He supposed for the layman like those not currently in the war effort, it was something to excited about. Cars were the American way now, or they had been before the Great Depression. There were many other exhibitions to see on the grounds, though he had probably missed most of them rushing off to enlist.

“I’m pretty sure the future will hold a lot more than that,” Steve replied and played his fingers through his bangs to keep them to the side.

“Oh, it will no doubt,” Brock said. There was something in the other man’s voice that indicated that Brock knew something about it, which seemed odd. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“No, I… well, my friend and I came together, but he’s...um, occupied,” he said with a helpless shrug. There were many, many dance rooms in this area of town beyond the expo, and while he was certain he could find Bucky, he was unwilling to make yet another goodbye. “Is someone coming for you?”

“No, I’m alone. Did you want to see the future with me?”

Steve glanced around at the multitude of people wandering around, some coming, some going, others just mingling together discussing things in a group. He had only ever been particularly close to Bucky, and while the opportunity would be fleeting, he still desired a connection to others. It was so rare to find someone who cared nothing of his appearance or even his attitude towards certain subjects or pretenses for getting into trouble. The answer was easy enough for him.

“Yes, let’s do it,” he said with a smile. “We aren’t going to have much time for fun after this.”

“Considering we are about to go off to war, we may as well live life to the fullest. No time for regrets,” Brock said and pointing in a direction that he hadn’t been. “Have you been over there?”

“No, we went to the machinery and personal protective suits section.” It had been interesting, but he suspected Bonnie and Connie had been waiting for the Stark demonstration.

“I think over there is space, life and homestead? Or science?”

“We’ve got until it closes, right?” He was fine to hang around with someone who was as alone as he was. He and Brock were going to be seeing a lot of each other at Camp Lehigh after all, assuming that they were assigned to similar units.

“Are you… part of the SSR or the regular infantry,” he said, letting Brock take the led.

“SSR. I was chosen for a special project,” the dark-haired man replied with a smirk. “You?”

“Yeah, SSR too.” He was very pleased.

So they wandered together to the various sections of the Stark Expo, and while he was in awe of some of the very ideas, it seemed to him that Brock was mostly amused. Television with colour was an amazing idea. Computers in all households as well. Telephones where an operator wasn’t required to connect the call even if it was just one household to another. Medicines for illness, vaccines to avoid disease altogether, better production of food crops, the sheer notion of being able to put a man on the moon, protective armour that prevented men from being killed by bullets, clean nuclear energy instead of electricity.

If it could be imagined, it seemed like some part of the Expo touched on it. He found it far more enjoyable going around with Brock because the other man was fine letting him read all the descriptions and ignoring that he was slower at it because of his poor vision. It also was far more interesting to hear some of the jokes that Brock said about the high of fast-pace industry.

“Yeah and then they’ll replace all of us with robots and we’ll be no better off,” was one that he had snorted at regarding the building to cars on a large-scale. He knew some of that was happening now, but robots? No way.

They finished up just before closing and while most people were going dancing, he had vowed to start to close up parts of his life for now tomorrow. He couldn’t sleep in because of that. He’d also have to quit his job, which he wasn’t entirely sad about.

Steve tucked his hands into his pockets and stepped around as Brock sat down on a bench. His feet were hurting a bit from all the walking around, but he’d be home soon enough. “So, I guess I’ll see you in a week?”

“Sure thing, Rogers,” Brock replied with a smirk.

“Don’t stay out too late now, Rumlow,” he said with a smile of his own. They had taken to being amused by their last names about half way through their perusal of the space section.

“Yes, mom.”

He was given a wave for his trouble, but they were both amused by each other enough that he felt good to leave it on such a high note. He really only had those with a few people and it was most often with Bucky. He pretty much already considered Brock his friend and that felt even better. Normally he didn’t attract the same kind of attention that Bucky did, least of all from someone he found particularly attractive.

Steve started to head off when he noted the other man stretching out on the bench. Normally, he wouldn’t feel curious about that, but he had noticed over the course of the night that Brock didn’t mention a family or living quarters.

He walked back and looked down over Rumlow. He found the other man raising an eyebrow at him. “Did you think of something else to nag me about?”

“No, I was just… where are you staying tonight? We should maybe meet up again… if you want to,” he said, more curious about where the other man was staying.

“Here seems like a good enough place to me,” Brock said airily. It was warm enough to sleep outside, but this was the Expo and lots of people were still about. “No laws about public benches.”

Steve agreed and nodded, running his fingers through his hair. “I… er. Hey, my place isn’t big, but there’s a bit of room on the floor if you want to have a roof over your head.”

He could tell he was being considered for sincerity, but he just gestured in the vague direction of his place. It was really no problem putting someone up, and it would actually be nice to do it for someone else given how many times Bucky had taken him in. Then again, he had had Bucky over for sleep-overs more than once, but his friend had a bigger place so it wasn’t often at his.

“That’s swell and all, but I’d rather not impose,” Brock replied after considerable thought on the matter.

“It’s no trouble. My place isn’t huge, but it’s relatively warm and dry.” Well, it was warm at this time of year, but it was thankfully always dry. When it was cold, he was just glad he had an extra blanket. “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Brock slowly sat up from the bench and then stood. “Need me to chase away your nightmares?”

“Hardly, but the vermin will chew on you first,” he replied with a smirk and turned to head off towards his place.

“You better be joking about vermin,” Brock growled.

“If you’re fast, we can have a good breakfast,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the narrow-eyed glare he was being given. “What, you’ve never eaten rat stew before?”

It was clear that Rumlow couldn’t decide if he was joking or not. He was; he certainly wasn’t desperate enough to eat any kind of vermin, and he didn’t have enough bread in the house to attract any anyway. The best he could manage was potatoes and onions actually, and rats didn’t like those much.

Brock gave him a light shove for his teasing and complained the entire way about how Brooklyn rats were, by default, smaller and uglier creatures. The entire comparison between the boroughs of New York had him laughing so hard that he almost couldn’t ascend the stairs to his apartment without risking an asthma attack.

Queens had the biggest and juiciest rats, the Bronx stringy and flighty, Brooklyn had small and ugly ones, Manhattan had fat gristle-laden ones, and all of Staten Island were feral and disease ridden.

“Were you born in New York?” Steve was still wiping his eyes from laughing so hard. He paused to fish in his pockets for his apartment key.

“Yeah, I was born in Queens,” Brock said with an easy grin.

“Really?”

“Would I ever tell a lie?” The charming look was clearly supposed to be an indication that his new friend was being perfectly honest. “Not the nicest part of Queens, but you know, we can’t have everything. Good looks, intelligent and skills are as far as things go for me.”

Steve snorted as he pushed the key into the lock and turned it. “I see that you left your modesty in Queens,” he replied.

“Nah, I never had that to begin with,” Brock said with a chuckle.

He paused at the entrance of his place, a little self-conscious of the size of it. He kept it clean and free of clutter, mostly because he didn’t really have any to begin with, only his charcoal and sketchbooks constantly moving around. He reasoned that if Brock didn’t like it, the other man could head off to the park bench again.

He sighed and stepped in, flicking on the light to cast a low ambiance to the room and shrugged off his jacket. As he reached to hang it up, his eyes fixed on Rumlow entering and glancing around. Like so many other things, the man didn’t seem to regard him or his living quarters as anything to scoff at. After so many years of being given the flip, it was a fresh sense of relief. It seemed to take some of his natural defensiveness right out of him.

“Where should I put my stuff so it’s out the way?” Rumlow didn’t even seem fazed that his kitchen table was a board over his bathtub.

“By the bed would be best. There’s an extra blanket underneath it,” he said as he closed the door and locked them inside.

He approached the bedroom area, removing his tie along the way and laying it on the top of his chester drawers so it lay flat for use tomorrow. He slipped out of his shoes and set them neatly on the opposite side of of his drawers, and by the time he was dressed down for bed, Brock had laid out the extra blanket.

“I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow,” Brock said conversationally. “I’ve got a few things to do before getting shipped out.”

“Probably saying goodbye to your family?” He assumed that his friend would return to Queens for the rest of the week. It’s what he would do if his parents were still alive anyway.

“No,” Brock replied coolly. “I said my goodbyes. I’ll just clean up what I need to and be done with it.”

Steve padded off to shut off the light once he had seen Brock settled, and he knew the layout of his place so well it was easy to maneuver in the dark. “You’re welcome to stay if you have no where else to go,” he said as he found the bed and managed to not step on Brock.

“That’s a kind offer,” was the reply from the floor. “I’ll be out most of the days, but if you don’t mind someone taking up floor space, I’ll sleep here.”

“That’s fine by me,” he replied as he slipped under the blanket and tucked it close to his chin. “I’ll work three more days and then I have organize my things.” Since he had no one to give most of it to, he’d have to sell or give most of it away, just keep what was most important and let the military keep it in storage for him.

“Night, Rogers,” came the call from below.

“Night, Rumlow.”

*****

It was raining hard enough to be heard against the rooftop, but more than that, the temperature had dropped to be cool. Normally, the drop in temperature wouldn’t bother much of anyone, but Steve always had trouble in the cold. It was a combination of having almost no body fat and fluctuating between being a little healthy and rather sick. The humidity never helped either, even when he was huddled under his blanket.

Four days until he shipped out to New Jersey for special training, and here he was feeling like he was at the usual point of freezing. He listened to the rain on the rooftop and shivered, trying to snuggle deeper into his mattress and wondering if it was raining in Britain where Bucky was probably getting final orders or at least more training. He couldn’t imagine how miserable it would be to be wet, cold and fighting for their lives, but he’d see it soon enough.

Not for the first time, he missed his best friend. He vowed to be on those active lines as soon as possible. Once he proved himself in basic training and to Doctor Erskine, he’d be fighting as he wanted. He would be a soldier.

Until then, here he was regretting that he didn’t have a third blanket. Normally it wouldn’t be a problem because Bucky would be settled in bed next to him warming things and the extra blanket over them both if it was that bad. He could cuddle up to Bucky’s back and be warm, but he was on his own and his extra blanket was occupied with Brock sleeping on the floor.

Steve shifted to peer in the dark at the floor. He could vaguely make out the lighter material of the blanket on the floor. This close he could hear the gentle soft sound of Brock sleeping. He couldn’t ask for the blanket back, but he also had so much running around to do in the coming day that he needed a good sleep as well. It wasn’t that he and Brock were that close either, though they got along better than he had ever expected.

It was perhaps the only reason he cleared his throat loudly as he leaned over the side of the bed. “Brock,” he called, unable to tell if the other man stirred. He waited a few seconds before leaning further and reaching down to poke at his friend.

He let out a yelp when a vice grip found his wrist immediately, and his initial jerk backwards felt like he was about to rip his arm from the socket. There was a moment when he thought he was going to be pulled right off the bed but instead, Brock relented and released him with a sleepy groan.

Well, at least they were both awake now?

“Brock?”

“S’up, Steve.” His friend’s voice was heavy with sleep, and he felt bad. It didn’t stop his shivering though. “Is that rain?”

He leaned over the side of the bed again, able to now pick out vague movements of the blanket below him. “It is, yes. Listen um… can I ask a favour?”

“At like three in the morning?”

He may as well just get on with it. So far, Brock hadn’t laughed or spurned him at all. “I’m cold,” he confided softly. “I just… don’t maintain my body temperature well in the cold, and I can’t risk getting sick so close to shipping out.”

“Uh huh.”

“Would you… mind sharing your blanket with me? I mean, you can sleep on the bed, but I’d really appreciate half of the blanket you have,” he said. He was prepared for Brock to refuse him, since he was well-aware he was asking a lot of someone he had met not even a week ago.

Instead, he saw more than heard Brock shifting on the floor and then rising, bringing the blanket along. He looked up through the darkness of the apartment and wished he could see the other man’s expression. “Shuffle over, will ya?” Brock was clearly stifling a yawn while speaking.

Steve moved over, back to where he left enough space for another body to settle down, and the bed shifted as Brock carelessly flopped into it. The most his friend did was toss the blanket over them both and feel around for the edge of his blanket before pulling it over so they both shared two blankets.

He settled down and waited as the bed warmed with Brock’s body heat, and he thought that enough time had passed where his friend would be back asleep. He slid forward until he was just shy of touching Brock and settled there, able to feel warmth radiating off of the other man. He just had to slip away later in the morning so as not to risk making his friend uncomfortable.

In the end, he found that the point was moot. Sometime in the night, Brock had rolled over and got an arm around him, hugging him close and breathing deeply against the top of his head. Their feet tangled together, and Steve was eternally grateful for the warmth and a new appreciation for the fact that Rumlow did not wear a shirt to bed. He also noted that Brock smelled really nice, spicy and masculine.

Escaping the other man’s grip proved to be more difficult than he would have first thought. It had never been difficult to get out of Bucky’s lax sleeping grip, but the moment he shuffled off, Brock’s arm tightened and dragged him right back in. When he then tried to wiggle towards the end of the bed, his friend’s arm caught on his shoulders and with a soft sound, Brock rolled forward onto him, successfully pinning him to the mattress.

It was only the soft snort of amusement that gave Rumlow away as playing this up. “Ha ha, very funny. You can let me go now,” he griped.

“Fine, laying on you is like bedding down with a skeleton anyway,” Brock replied, voice light with sleepy amusement. That wasn’t the first time he had been told that.

The weight on top of him relented, and he squirmed away. He flipped over to face Brock just in time to be smacked in the face with his own pillow. His immediate response was to take that as a challenge to fight and threw himself at his friend to lamely kick and throw a few close-quarter punches, a sort of play fighting that often left Bucky in stitches of laughter.

Brock didn’t seem to find it nearly as amusing and instead playfully fought him off, slapping away punches and occasionally catching his flailing feet with knee or brushed ankles. He could tell right away that Rumlow was very good at this kind of combat, but he didn’t really get a true sense of it until Brock simply caught his wrists and with a twist of hips and legs, dumped him on his back to the mattress and pinned him there. He thrashed and struggled until he was winded and blinked owlishly when all his friend did was just shift on his thighs to let him tire himself.

Brock was smirking. So much of the charm and natural confidence of the man showed through, and it took his breath away. The sleep-mused appearance didn’t detract anything of his rising attraction either.

“Surrender?”

“I well… do I have a choice,” Steve asked, his face red with exertion even as he jerked his bony wrists in the hold on them. It didn’t relent. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Alleys mostly,” Brock said airily. “You know, the same places you got punched a lot apparently. See, I learned how to throw a punch and to dodge. What have you been doing the last few years?”

Steve had to laugh. “Learning to stand up quickly and how to take a punch,” he said cheekily. “It comes in handy, believe me.”

“I think you spend most of your time winded,” Brock mocked without malice. “Haven’t you ever learned how to throw a proper punch?”

“Bucky has tried on numerous occasions,” he said with a sigh. “It’s kind of hard to take a good swing when I have to jump to hit their faces or shoulders even.”

Brock snorted and leaned down to study him intently, and he flexed his fingers so that his wrists tested the other man’s grip. He wasn’t getting up until Rumlow let him up. “You ever learn to foot sweep or head butt?”

“What?” He’d heard of those things, but it wasn’t something he had seen employed in the alleys of Brooklyn.

His dark-haired friend groaned and finally released his arms and sat up straight again. “Come on, you have to use the advantages you have.”

“Brock, physically, I don’t have advantages,” Steve replied with a sheepish smile before his expression hardened to his usual determined visage. “I just don’t let my disadvantages stand in my way of doing what I think is right.” 

Rumlow studied him intently for a few moments. “Is that why you’re enlisting?”

“Partially,” he admitted softly. “I don’t like bullies, and as far as I can tell, the Nazis have shown themselves to be exactly that. I want to do my part to stand up to them, and I don’t think that my ‘disadvantages’ make me any more exempt than other men fighting for freedom.”

Brock again considered him, clearly playing over his words seriously. Most wouldn’t really give them too much time, but he had found Rumlow contemplative rather than brusque. “So you’re going to war with or without the enhancement from Doctor Erskine because you feel it’s the right thing to do?”

“Yes,” Steve said firmly and found his wrists released immediately after. “What are your reasons for joining up?”

Rumlow got a far away look but remained sitting on his thighs. “To make a difference. To prove to everyone that one man with enough will and drive can make things right if given the opportunity.”

He peered up at his friend and couldn’t help but smile. There was a depth to Brock that peeked out from the rugged man who played at sarcastic amusement most of the time. There was something unrelenting and hard, like Brock was personally driving towards something only the other man could know. He had a feeling that whatever that might be, Rumlow was going to see it through or die trying. He admired that kind of strength of character because it aligned so well with his own.

“You’re going to go far, Brock,” he murmured before pushing at his friend’s bare belly. “Now let me up. You’re putting my feet to sleep.”

“Better than breaking those chicken legs of yours,” Brock replied and slid off of him to settle down next to him.

He rolled up onto his side to keep facing his friend, overestimating the distance between them and almost smacked his face into Brock’s shoulder. He ended up just rubbing his nose from the slight impact and peered up into the dark-haired man’s face which was amused as usual. He dropped his hand away, feeling it brush against Rumlow’s stubbled chin.

They both froze and stared at one another. For a half-minute, he thought Brock might kiss him. For that same half-minute, he thought he’d like that very much.

“Brock… are you…?”

“...am I?”

Steve swallowed, but the expression on Rumlow’s face gave nothing away. It was far too early in their friendship to consider those kinds of personal questions, though he could freely admit that he found Rumlow attractive. Those sorts of thoughts were kept internalized, and he only offered a little shrug and smile before easing away and passing off his question as something completely unrelated. It was better that way for all.

“Are you hungry?”

He could tell immediately that Brock didn’t believe him, but was willing to let it slide. No one in this day and age admitted to being queer. It was a death sentence; heck, they were chemically sterilizing those even suspected of it. Military didn’t want them either and was hard-lined about not letting any queer in the service. He had a single chance and he wasn’t going to blow it on an inappropriate question; he knew he would never want it asked of him.

“I could eat,” Rumlow replied slowly, sitting up in bed and swinging legs over the side.

Steve’s eyes were drawn to the faint white lines that were far too straight and far too uniform to be considered accidental, though it was interesting how the lines criss-crossed from shoulder down to the disappear into the top of Brock’s pajama bottoms. He didn’t know what they were from, but the scarring was old and had clearly faded from time under the sun and hard labour. There were also enough of the straight white lines to make him flare with indignation. It wasn’t right.

Instead, Brock stood and seemed unbothered and entirely uncaring about the faded marks. He couldn’t help himself. “Your back....”

Rumlow glanced at him and ran a hand purposefully the small of it. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Took me years to get it looking this way, and plenty of hard work.”

“The marks…”

“An old lesson learned,” Brock said, cutting off any right he had to protesting indignation. “And I learned it well.”

Steve sat up and swung his much skinnier legs over the side of the bed. “What lesson could you possibly learn from… whatever caused that?”

He received a measured stare for his question. Then Brock smiled, dark eyes hard and cold, and Steve knew that those scars were just a small tale of the man. “When it’s white, prepare to be blight. When it’s red, you’re going to wish you were dead. When it’s green, it’s safe to preen. When it’s blue, you’ll be good as new.”

His brows drew together as he tried to puzzle out the rhyme, clearly something from a child, but he couldn’t make hide nor hair of it. It was clear with Brock simply walking away from him to pull on a shirt that the conversation on the subject was over, and he let it go despite his normal attitude of curiosity and wanting to see things made right. Bucky had told him that personal battles were sometimes just that, and he respected Brock enough to know the man could handle himself.

Instead, he drew himself from bed and made it up and then began the day. They ate a healthy meal of oatmeal and canned fruit, most of which Brock had brought home by calling it his ‘rent’ for staying with Steve. He hadn’t put up much protest, not when they got just a touch of brown sugar on top that made everything so warm and wonderful, like childhoods long lost.

The next three days passed with little definition. He closed up his place, gave away or sold what he couldn’t take with him and packed the meager belongs that he had in a single knapsack. He and Brock shared the bed and blankets despite the weather having warmed after the second day of straight rain. They met with the transport at the assigned pick-up and driven down the Wheaton, New Jersey.

Life felt like it was just starting for the first time since his mother passed. Brock just groaned about how much punishment it was that they were sent to New Jersey.

*****

Camp Lehigh was inland enough to be hot and dusty most of the time, especially in high summer. There were several companies being stationed for training to be sent overseas to Britain, mostly reservists but also entire units to be sent to assist in the grueling combat now that the war was on in multiple Theaters. His squad was a group of twelve, all selected specifically to take part in Project Rebirth.

Once the selection process was finished after a week, the rest of the platoon would be shuffled into the many companies currently at the end of training within the Camp. Their platoon would either be sent as it was to Britain or would be listed as reservists and sent into companies that had already seen combat and lost soldiers.

They were apparently to act and treat one another as a platoon despite the competition to impress both Colonel Phillips and Doctor Erskine. He wasn’t certain how much input Agent Carter or their drill sergeant, Michael Duffy, would be contributing to the selection process. As far as he had seen, they were present to put the men through their paces and perhaps report who was the best at what, who needed improvement and to set themselves as people for the rest of the platoon to grind teeth towards when the going got tough.

First hour on the line up, Steve knew that Colonel Phillips had completely disregarded him as a joke. It was clear that most of the men he was training with thought much the same thing, that he was a joke and that made him open for testing and bullying. There were only two men that seemed disinterested in such antics, Rumlow and another man who went by the name Nelson. Brock knew him, and Nelson just plain had no interest in being apart of any kind of trouble, citing that they would be in enough of it on the front line.

For everyone else, it seemed like open season. Steve had grown up similarly, so he wasn’t particularly bothered by the antics of the others or the fact he was generally excluded or mocked. He was here for the express purpose of convincing Doctor Erskine that the single opportunity to fight in a war effort wouldn’t be wasted.

The first day was a misery. They got right into exercise drills and Steve went to bed sore, bruised and too tired to care for the ache in his back or lungs. The second day wasn’t any better, though he found that he could and would excel in the bookwork aspect of tactics, hand signals, a bit of history and weapons theory. His mind soaked it in as it always had, reading once giving him a working knowledge and twice a memorization that he could recall easily and well. The physical aspect of the day he did, of course, lag behind and was ridiculed more than once.

Gilbert Hodge had taken a personal liking to tormenting him, but he knew the type. He did what he could to simply ignore the other man, but Hodge seemed to find any opportunity to trip him, help him along in failing an exercise, passed more than a few pointed comments about the state of the military. He ignored what he could and only held himself back from fighting Hodge because there was strict rules against interunit conflict.

The third night he was too tired to do more than find his bed and go immediately to sleep. Tomorrow would be the first day that they would be doing close-quarter combat training, and he intended to stand his ground in it. That was something he was very good at, so he wanted to be rested to do his part to show that he had every right to be there along with everyone else.

When he was dragged from his bed in the dark barracks, he at first assumed that they were being roused for midnight operations. He was hauled out quickly, stumbling and then literally lifted. He became very awake at that, but the cool night air hit him in the face as he squirmed and twisted to get away.

Steve was thrown to the ground instead, the shadow of the barracks obscuring the four men that were suddenly surrounding him and _kicking_ him. He knew enough survival instinct to curl up, but boot toes and heels found his back and shoulders and legs. He squirmed along the ground in an attempt to get out of the circle so that there was room to get up and defend himself despite the growing throb of pain from being stamped on and kicked. Not a single blow was aimed for his face or head.

He suddenly uncurled and forced himself up to his feet. He recognized Hodge based on the size of the man, and he lifted his fists to fight the bully. He was punched in the back for focusing solely on the instigator, but he stepped forward to throw a swing all the same. Hodge knocked aside his fist and drove one into his stomach. Air rushed out of his lungs, and he made a soft squeezy noise as he tried desperately to find his breath.

His arms folded around his belly as four men laughed at his predicament. He needed air before he could rise to challenge again. It was so difficult with the wind knocked out of him.

A fifth man joined the group, and he felt a foot set to his shoulder and force him to his back. It was too dark to make out faces, but the four shuffled to make room as if the horrible odds were all part of the plan. He was still wheezing on the ground.

Suddenly, the newcomer seized the biggest man, Hodge, and slammed the man up against the side of the barracks, making loud thumping sound. Everyone else seemed stunned by the sudden aggression to someone other than Steve, himself included.

“You’ve made your point, now get back to your bunk.” Steve instantly recognized Brock’s voice in the darkness. “Kick him again and you can explain to the medical officer why you need stitches.”

“...y-you’re not allowed weapons,” Hodge whispered harshly but with a trace of fear. “G-get your knife off my neck. We were just showing Rogers his place.”

The other three shifted, uncertain what to do now that it was clear that Brock had brought a real blade to a foot war. The fact that Rumlow had snuck a knife into camp didn’t surprise Steve on the ground; he knew the man had grown up rough and that kind of life often left certain needs on a man. He was far more surprised Rumlow had come out at all. Brock didn’t pick on him, but it was clear that Rumlow expected him to keep up with the rest of them. He did and without complaint. He didn’t want to be coddled and Brock never did.

He shifted on the cold hard ground, slow to get to his feet, but he was nudged hard with a boot. It wasn’t that he wanted to listen to them, but his eyes were drawn like everyone else to the two men in the dark with a knife between them.

“Fine, you hazed him. Get lost,” Brock said with a clear note of aggression. “If I catch you picking on him again, you’re going to regret your life choices. _All_ of you.”

“What, you think he’s cut out for this? You think he belongs here?” Hodge sounded aggravated for all of those words and then a squeak emerged from the other man. Clearly Brock was serious about that knife.

“I think he’s either going to prove his worth or get kicked. One week we’re a team. He either makes it or he doesn’t,” Rumlow growled high enough for all of them to hear. “Kicking him around only makes you four look like assholes.”

“It’d be better if he just leave…” it came from one of the men near him.

“He’s slowing us down. The other companies mock us because of him,” another said, this one near his head.

Brock issued a soft bark of laughter. “And what shit do you give about the other companies? They aren’t here for Project Rebirth; they are here to finish training to rush to the front and choke on a bullet.” The four men standing shifted but didn’t protest. “We’ve got a single week to be a team.”

“As if…”

“I’m sure this wasn’t taught to you boys in grade school, since you all probably lived high lives and think yourselves oh so important, but let me give you a little lesson about teams,” Brock’s voice was full of mocking, throwing in the face of men who technically had better odds in a fight. “A team is only as strong as its weakest member.”

Gilbert Hodge apparently had had enough, but the man was unable to move away from the wall. “He shouldn’t even be here.”

“You’re right, he shouldn’t. You’re the ones that dragged him out here after curfew,” Rumlow replied and clearly moved from Hodge as the man was suddenly easing away from the wall and group. “Back to your bunks and rest well, boys. Tomorrow is combat training.” There was no denying the threat in the words as all four hustled off.

Steve slowly pushed himself to his feet, dusting himself off and finding all the new tender spots on his person from boots. He heard the telltale sound of an officer coming to check on the site and the disturbance, and he immediately moved opposite with Brock who had also heard the sound of booted feet on the grass.

They skirted the building rapidly and without making much in the way of sound, having to hide in the shadow of a wall as the officer peered around the side for movement. He held his breath despite the ache to his ribs and lungs, but they were somehow not seen.

“You didn’t have to do that…” he finally whispered.

“Is that your version of thanks?” Brock grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the building, and he no choice but the follow. “Look, they were breaking the rules, and that’s why I stepped in. They could have waited until tomorrow to lay you out on the ground.”

“Yeah well… apparently they were afraid of my fighting spirit and had to take me down a few pegs to even the odds for tomorrow,” Steve replied with a wheeze as his elbow bumped a particularly sore spot on his ribs. He had no idea where they were going.

“They are cowards,” Rumlow said with a renewed air of indifference for those antics.

“Hey, where are we going?”

“Officer’s bathroom. It should be empty this time of night,” Brock replied.

Steve knew for a fact they weren’t allowed to go there. “You realize that’s against the rules.”

“After all the rule breaking tonight, what’s the difference if I want to turn on a light to make sure you aren’t going to bleed out over night.” They apparently arrived at their destination. “Keep a look out,” Brock ordered softly and then he heard the vague sounds of a lock being jimmied and then the door opened.

It was, indeed, empty. The officer’s bathroom was also smaller but more lavish to the recruit bathrooms. He didn’t exactly feel secure in here, but it was better than realizing the extent of his new bruises in the dark or the next morning with communal showers. At least he would know what he was dealing with and how sore he was probably going to be.

Rumlow locked the door again behind him and pushed him towards the sinks. “Take off your shirt.”

“That’s not necessary…”

Brock gave him a look that was so reminiscent of Bucky’s determined ones that he shifted and reluctantly tugged his dirty white shirt over his head. Pain flared long his body, forcing him to grit his teeth as he peered down at the numerous vivid bruises that were already forming on his ribs. When he turned his back on the mirror, he saw more than a few on his back as well.

Steve looked at his friend when Brock moved over to the sink and wet a cloth with some water before approaching him. “You weren’t joking when you said you’d get up.”

“I’ve actually been worse than this,” he replied with a bit of a shrug and then a wince when the cloth was pressed to his side. He stood for Brock cleaning the scrapes that had also resulted in the struggle, wincing occasionally when a particularly sensitive bruise was touched. “Thanks for having my back.”

“Technically I made you lay on it,” Rumlow remarked with a faint smirk.

“You know what I mean,” Steve said with a smile. Few people stood up for the little guy after all. “Tomorrow I’ll have them on the ropes.”

Brock poked one of his larger bruises hard enough to earn a yelp of both surprise and pain out of him. “Just don’t get your nose broken or anything. I’ve never set one of those right before.”

He snorted and stood for Rumlow washing the rest of his wounds and assessing his bruises as a ‘team building’ exercise. He was urged back into his dusty shirt, and then they picked their way back to the barracks, though he found little sleep for the rest of the night thanks to every position resulting in one of his many forming bruises protesting.

He struggled through morning inspection and managed to get some of his food down before almost losing it on the morning run. They were pushed hard and Sergeant Duffy took one look at him huffing along and generally ignored him, clearly aware that something had occurred. Hodge wouldn’t even look at him, which was a pleasant change actually.

Steve lost his first fight in the combat training, which was basically Sergeant Duffy and Agent Carter setting them against one another for close-quarters combat, which ended up just as wrestling. The object was to knock a man outside of the marked circle or pin to the ground. Punching and kicking was allowed to do that, and winners moved on to fight other winners until there was only one man standing to claim they were the most combat effective.

Brock Rumlow won without apparent effort.

This fact seemed to surprise both Agent Carter and Sergeant Duffy, since his friend had always presented himself as a middle-of-the-pack skill level soldier. Even Steve, who had an inkling of what Brock could do was left speechless when Rumlow easily dispatched any man who stepped into the circle.

Hodge was perhaps the only one who had seemed a match for Rumlow in the circle, but Steve also suspected that Brock made it seem that way. There was something refined and purposeful in the way that Rumlow dumped Hodge to the ground but somehow didn’t make a pin. It was probably the first time Hodge had ever been humiliated in such a way for when Brock finally ended their combat it was with a vicious headbutt followed by a foot sweep and then Rumlow planting a foot on Hodge’s chest in victory.

Steve hadn’t been the first one to congratulate Brock, but he could tell that his meant the most. They had eaten companionably, and he noted that the rest of the platoon laid off of mocking or pushing him around. They generally ignored him and let him struggle through.

In the end, he wondered if he had Brock to thank for Doctor Erskine choosing him over the other candidates. He knew that it had been on his own merit and determination to be here, but he never failed to acknowledge help when he received it.

He lingered in the barracks that were being cleaned out now that the decision was made. If Rumlow was upset with the choice, the man certainly didn’t show it. Instead, Brock packed meager belongings with a cool efficiency as he sat on the bunk opposite watching.

“Are they sending you to Britain?”

“Yeah, for final training,” Brock said without turning around. “Sounds like we’re going to be reservists, which is fine by me.”

“I’ll come and join you guys soon,” Steve said determinedly.

Rumlow glanced at him and smirked. “I know you will. Once they do whatever it is that they are going to do, don’t forget to leave us some Krauts, right?”

“Right.”

He huffed and smiled, aware that this might actually be the last time that he saw Rumlow alive. He had been hearing all the reports of casualties, but it seemed pointless to dwell on something that was completely out of his control. When he arrived on the front, he could start to make a difference.

He rose when it appeared that Brock was packed and held out his hand to the man. “If you happen to run into the 107th infantry, look up my best friend, Bucky Barnes.”

Brock took his hand for a firm shake. “I’ll let him know that you’re on your way.”

“You do that, and tell him that he’s still a jerk,” Steve said with a smile. “He’ll know who it’s from.”

“Right. Do you want me to punch him too?”

Steve smiled. “Nah, if you punched like I do, he’d just laugh at you.” His smile lingered as he stared up the height difference between them. “And thanks for everything, Brock.”

The dark-haired man smiled back down at him, but there was a razor edge to it. Somehow, it enhanced Rumlow’s handsome appearance. “Don’t thank me yet, Rogers. There’s still a war to be won, and I get the feeling you’re a game changer.”

He drew a deep breath and held it, nodding his head. “I won’t humiliate you too much out there when I arrive.”

Rumlow snorted and clapped him on the shoulder once before hefting the pack and leaving without so much as a backwards glance. That was just the way that Brock was, he had come to appreciate. The guy was always looking ahead and spent so little time looking back that it was no wonder the man was going to go far. There was something very attractive about that determination, something he knew he himself had.

“So long, Rumlow,” he called for the sake of calling.

“The fight will be waiting for you, Rogers,” came the call back.

After that, he knew that Brock was gone. He couldn’t explain the deep foreboding in his guts as he looked around the empty barracks. Well, things couldn’t get any worse than multiple rejection letters, right?

*****

Johann Schmidt looked up from the coded message that his subordinate had recently handed him, reading through it quickly for the contents as he sat at his desk. This was both good news and bad news all in one, but it was also not particularly ground-breaking for any of his plans. The war would continue, the world’s military factions would weaken and HYDRA would be ready and available to sweep them aside in a swift decisive strike.

He set the telegraph on his desk and rose, stepping away to stand in front of the window which gave him a panoramic view of the snowy Austrian Alps. Slowly, he folded his hands behind his back and clasped one wrist in a hand, staring out at the white isolating slopes beyond the window and contemplating what he had learned.

Heinz Kruger had both succeeded and failed. The success was that Erskine was dead, but the failure was a grave one in failing to return with the formula. No doubt his agent was blessed to have died at the hands of this apparent new ‘super-soldier’. He would have done far worse to Kruger for failing at such an important aspect of the task.

Schmidt worked his jaw slightly, feeling the gentle shift of the mask covering his visage. Time would tell how this apparent ‘hero’ was going to work out for the Allies, but he considered it something only vaguely interesting. Erskine could no longer trouble him, could no longer flaunt around an inferior product. However, it reminded him that the world would be far better off with superior men instead of all this trifling weakness.

The Americans were training soldiers readily. The same was occurring with the Canadians. It seemed reasonable that the British, being the only Allied nation resisting this close to Germany would be the rally point.

There was no confirmation. He needed more spies, he decided. It was time that HYDRA expanded beyond the borders of conscripted soldiers and drafted ones from conquered countries.

He turned his head when the Tesseract sparked in the containment filter to prevent too much energy from leaking out. There had been a significant surge over a month ago, one that had shown him stars and a flash of a world very advanced and strange. He knew it had nothing to do with the new ‘soldier’ Erskine had created, but he hadn’t yet been able to puzzle out the Tesseract’s activity level, which was by now always emitting some kind of energy. For the last six weeks, he hadn’t even had to do anything to prompt the transference of energy to a stabilized form, which had greatly sped up production in their factories.

Schmidt couldn’t explain the suddenness, and that would have to be rectified. His knowledge of the Tesseract was not complete, but he would tease Her secrets out soon enough. She was going to win him the war. She was a key to making him unstoppable.

He was drawn from his musings when Arnim Zola arrived with a new smaller prototype energy cartridge. He stepped away from the view of the mountains that he was currently ignoring and prowled closer to the small doctor. “I am giving you another task, Doctor.”

Arnim paused to regard him with wary interest. “Oh?”

“Erskine is dead. The way to pressing forward human evolution is clear for you to pursue in your spare time,” he announced like it was a gift. In his mind it was. He knew that Zola’s interests lay in exoskeleton technology, but recreating the serum was more pressing right now.

Zola nodded and considered, the hand-held cartridge momentarily forgotten. He could almost see the wheels turning. “Was the formula retrieved then?”

“No, you will build on the current superior form of it in my blood. Build it well, Zola and if you succeed, our dominion over the war will been seen that much faster,” Johann said, the corner of his lip quirking in an arrogant smile.

“Very well. Do you have a list of men to test it on?”

“Our workers have many uses. They are also expendable,” he replied coolly. With the war heating up, he had access to many POWs as they were collected from the crops of soldiers being sent overseas.

Schmidt stepped away, letting Arnim mull over the new project as he flexed his hand in his glove. He suddenly decided that it was time to reach out to Reinhardt after that latest discovery in the deserts in the south. If the man could prove yet again that trust could be placed with Werner, then he had on his own special projects requiring a leader.

For now, it was more important that his set-up for sweeping aside opposition was completed in a timely manner. The longer the Allies and Axis bled each other, the weaker they were for HYDRA’s version of a blitzkrieg.

Then only superiority would reign.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you very much for reading my work. I greatly appreciate the support that I receive. Comments and kudos are always welcomed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then the war bells rung, and men answered the call with dignity and courage. And then sons, fathers, and brothers lived and died in the chaos of battle, their service not forgotten but never truly understood by anyone but their comrades-at-arms.
> 
> This is the first war/battle chapter, so there is mentions of weapons, war, and death of soldiers. I kept most of the graphic detail out of it and tried to bring across the idea that while these guys are scared as hell, they do their job well and thoroughly, sometimes even callously. It's the way it is.
> 
> Still no beta, so I no doubt have glaring mistakes about. I apologize for that.

*****  
**Azzano, Italy - September 1943**  


They weren’t yet called the name D-Day Dodgers, since the year was 1943, but Rumlow knew that was what those of them fighting up the boot of Italy would eventually be known as. They would probably never see the beaches of Normandy, never spill their blood or drown in their gear trying to make the hard run up the beaches in that unified attack. For now, they were only the 107th of the United States Army, pushing their way through Azzano in a drive North. Their objective was to get through as far North as possible before winter set in and the battling would get harder with the cold weather.

They were a Battalion of two-hundred strong, most of the original members long dead and stiffened up somewhere. The British were fighting to the West of their location but could support if requested, and it was just unfortunate the Canadians were spread out to their East as this push would have been worth having the extra men. The fighting had been bitter all the same, yet he found it a little more simplified than the active combat he had seen before. Everyone knew which side everyone else was on generally. Shoot the Germans and the Italians, and try not to shoot one another. They’d been trained to recognize the various uniforms thankfully.

Brock Rumlow was here because he knew that Azzano was going to be one of the places where HYDRA was going to make its original stretch outside of the confines of Nazi-Germany rule. This was also the place where, now that the initial ambush was over from the Krauts, that they regrouped and then faced off against HYDRA forces and, if he played his cards right, he’d become a prisoner of war and moved to Austrian Alps for a work camp. It would be his first and perhaps only opportunity to meet the fabled Red Skull, currently known as Johann Schmidt.

They were about to make the big push forward to take Azzano and secure it. The sound of gunfire was a bit of a distant away, but this debriefing was for a special group of men. He stood a rock’s throw from the man who would, if the future remained the same, become the Winter Soldier. Now the man was known best as Bucky Barnes or Serge.

He shifted the cheap cigarette to the right side of his mouth, not really smoking it but letting it burn down as his eyes remained on the map of the battle lines. Their Captain was giving them details of positions they would be required to find their way to in order to pick of key targets. Snipers were not that rare in this war, but the tactic in general was movement as a whole unit forward, but when they could be deployed, they were expected to be effective. Because they were the advancing force, snipers couldn’t just hole up somewhere and roost looking for targets.

Brock had established himself as quickly as he could as a marksman, and his team had taken to calling him ‘Crossbones’, given that any target that came into his cross-hairs were given the ol’ skull-and-crossbones treatment. It was a name that had actually stuck, and he didn’t mind it since he’d heard some guy in the 107th calling himself ‘Dum Dum’. What a prat… but soon to be a useful prat.

“Rumlow, you’ve got the longest distance to travel to get to your target, so you move out first,” the Captain said, looking to him.

He smirked and gave a mock salute with an, “aye, aye Captain.” Most of the men laughed or smiled, including Barnes who was being sent up a different lay of land, more populated but with more targets. Pirate jokes followed him around, so he may as well play it up.

He stepped away, butting out his cigarette on a passing tree before moving back to his squad with his Lieutenant. They moved out within twenty minutes, walking down well-worn paths in the forest and avoiding a few foxholes and then slit trenches closer to town. The dead had been removed, but evidence of their fallen state was still spattered on the trees or in the presence of little presents on the leaf-strewn ground. He stopped counting the number of fingers, toes, bits of skull and what might have been bits of flesh long ago.

It took them an hour of walking to get close enough to the city, approaching for the East and fully aware that the Germans occupied most of the city. The _rat-tat-tat_ of gunfire was far more obvious this close, and he surveyed the final rise into the city. This was where the opposition line began, and he knew well that HYDRA would be coming down from the North from what he had read before coming to the past.

The distant sounds of a building collapsing could be heard, but Rumlow ignored it as he shouldered his sniper rifle and nodded at his Lieutenant. The ten other men gripped their rifles tightly, looking to their Lieutenant for hand signals to advance them into the city, but it was Rumlow who stepped forward and began the climb first.

He had to get into position first. He legged it hard and fast up the final rise and dropped his rifle down into his grip as he crossed the last barrier of trees. He immediately saw other aspects of the 107th pushing inwards on their own objectives, and he lifted a hand to them as his squad spread out behind and followed him down a half-ruined alleyway.

More American soldiers were starting the building by building sweep to flush the Germans and Italians out. The innocent people trapped in the buildings were not his concern as he sprinted across the street and sidled in with another squad. He momentarily joined their advance forward.

Suddenly the building wall they were advancing along chipped with the pound of MG42 machine gun bullets. The lead soldier went down screaming and then was silenced a moment later, and even he had to admit the rate of fire whizzing past was intimidating. _Hitler’s buzzsaw_ indeed, everyone was no doubt thinking.

However, he shifted forward, needing to advance, and he waited for the pause of bullets before darting forward across the roadway, stepping over the fallen and glancing to his left. A new rush of bullets started as he found the other side and pressed himself there.

He looked back at the soldiers he had left behind, holding up his hand, signally the distance, height and the number of guns in the windows down the way. There were nods from the men he was leaving behind, and he left, sliding along the building and the return fire began behind him.

The adrenaline rush of battle surged inside of him, the bark of many types of guns from all over the area as well as the rustle and bustle of men pushing in with as many numbers as possible. The issue was a man could be blinkered, only looking ahead, frozen and internally choking on their own mortality. It was why soldiers were trained so heavily, so that even while blinkered and knotting up, they instinctively followed the hard-beaten drills that they had worked under.

He paused in a doorway to check his map and began moving in the direction of the target that he had been assigned. He had his rifle at shoulder level as he traversed the next street which had already been cleared, half of his squad finally catching up to him. They did checks on each of the buildings and the dead bodies that they passed.

Rumlow found the tallest building in the area and kicked down the half-buckled door, his Springfield rifle doing a sweep. A fragmentation grenade had already ripped the place apart. He began the stairs, never afraid to take the lead in operations regardless of the risk. He met with a Wehrmacht soldier slowly drowning in blood, lifting a hand in surrender. He put a bullet between the kid’s eyes and moved on.

His team knocked down the used up MG42 machine gun the kid had been using and swept the floor while he continued up. It was only when he reached the rooftop six floors later that he lay on his belly and advanced at a crawl towards the edge. He checked the position of the sun, then his map and squirmed up to the ledge. He slipped his 8x Unertl scope into position on his Springfield rifle before raising it up first and when it wasn’t blown out of his hands, he set it, sliding his pack under his chest as he braced the butt of rifle on his shoulder.

After zeroing it, Rumlow peered down the scope, hearing but not looking as his platoon settled themselves on the roof with him. They kept low but were murmuring plans for the next move. He swept his rifle around looking for his assigned target, even if the _tat-tat-tat_ of gunfire was a rhythm that he was now long used to. It was like a sick lullaby that allowed him to focus, aware that he had but one objective.

It took him ten minutes of sweeping windows to find the assigned target, a German officer in charge of the Eastern aspect of the city. The window was open, low light from the electricity of the room still playing over maps. His finger stroked the trigger as he waited, too far away to understand what the sweep of hands across the map meant.

“Target acquired,” he murmured to the spotter on his right. The purpose of the man was to make sure no one shot _him_ while he was focused on his target.

Brock waited. The target left his cross-hairs for five minutes. Brock waited. The sound of his breathing calmed him even as his elbows began to protest his position and his back ached somewhere close to his pelvis. Brock waited. His target returned and maps were being replaced with new ones. Brock waited.

He inhaled a deep breath and held it, his left eye closing to better focus down the scope. There was no wind today. Visibility was good aside from the dust and smoke that arose from either collapsing buildings or grenades. His finger stroked the trigger like it was an old friend.

 _Rat-tat-tat._ A wounded man screamed for a medic. A grenade exploded in the street below. _Tat-tat-tat._

The German officer moved from the maps to peer out the window. Brock’s finger tightened on the trigger and the weapon responded with single _tat_ and a jerk against his muscled shoulder. In the window, the German officer twisted backwards, spraying blood and brains across the maps, body slumping against the edge of the table and then sliding the floor.

“Target eliminated,” he murmured. His spotter crawled away to inform the rest of the squad of his success.

He swept his rifle around to where he had seen other hostiles in play settled in windows, reaching up to adjust his scope for the shorter distance. His rifle answered his coy touch with simple playful barks as men’s heads and chests exploded, reeling away from the windows where they had been firing upon the American troops moving up. Two, three, four… a fifth out of his range and not a good shot anyway.

Rumlow gave a final sweep before his left eye opened suddenly. A line of sweat ran down as his spine as his scope clearly showed him the barrel of a Panzer. “TANK,” he yelled and grabbed his things and ran back towards the building entrance.

He was the last one to make it in before the shell impacted with the ledge he had been recently using, the building shaking and mortar and cement of the building blowing backwards, taking out the door. Their corridor was suddenly filled with dirt, leaving visibility poor and most of them coughing. He waved a hand in front of his face and took the time to reload his rifle as the Lieutenant took control and began to lead them down towards ground level.

The building shook again, and they all braced on the walls. “If this building collapses on us, I’m going to be seriously pissed off,” someone near the front of their line said.

“Hope you took a piss because if it comes down, you ain’t moving.”

“Because pissing is the first thing you think of being crushed in a building.”

“Whatever, we’ll be dead and not giving a shit anyway.”

Rumlow shook his head as he followed the others in their hurry to descend through the dust and shudder of the building as another shell impacted. Their door was blocked with fallen debris, so they were all forced to clamber out of the nearest window, little flecks of mortar dropping upon them as they moved in an orderly fashion away from the damaged building.

Another shell impacted with it, and the roadway was soon covered in the wave of dirt and dust as the building gave way and collapsed. The sound momentarily stopped all evidence that they were in a war zone. His platoon trotted away from the fallen vantage point, not wanting to be cornered by the Panzer at this point; they hadn’t the resources to take it out, so it was better to skirt it. They were a sniper and infantry unit after all.

They met up with a radio operator and his Lieutenant took the opportunity to report back to their current base of operations that the Eastern target had been removed. The platoon was to join the others and push the enemy further into Azzano.

So they did.

*****

“Medic!”

His fingers were soaked red with fresh blood, and Brock fumbled with the front of the uniform of his spotter. He ripped open the uniform jacket, but the kid’s stomach and chest was covered in shrapnel and bullet holes, warm blood spilling out all over his hands. He looked up from where he had dragged the poor bastard, shoving aside fumbling hands that were entirely unhelpful to him mopping up the welling blood so he could try to get clotting powder from his pocket on the various wounds.

“I need a medic,” he yelled hoarsely, using his spare shirt to apply pressure to the multiple wounds. There wasn’t time or use getting out his medical kit. His eyes flicked up and met the kid’s wide shocked eyes. “Look at me,” he snarled, pressing harder despite the gasps for air from the idiot. Their eyes met all the same. “You’re a good kid, you hear?”

“...Bones…?” The kid was ashen, and he knew it was fruitless. He still mopped up as much of the blood as he could, though it just kept coming. How did the human body have so much of it to lose? Two other members of his unit lay facedown in the street. “Bones… we did good, yeah?”

“You betcha, kid,” he said, turning his head to once again shout for a medic that wasn’t coming. The smell of blood filled his nostrils and coated the back of his throat. There were yells up ahead, but it was clearly German based on the accent. He concentrated on the young man who had taken to him like some lost stray. “Hey, we did good. Look at me.”

“...’m scared, B-bones. A-nd cold.”

Brock knew the reality of his situation, but he reached out and grabbed the kid’s chin, forcing their gazes to meet when the other man’s threatened to drift. His fingers left blood on the kid’s white pallor. “I’m going to end this. I’m going to make the world a better place. You hear me?”

There was no response. The poor bastard was gone.

The buzz of gunfire was getting louder, and Rumlow knew that the invasion of HYDRA troops had begun. He rose from where he had settled and pulled his pack onto his back again, sliding the strap of the rifle over his head. He had no use for the dead, not if he hoped to get to where he needed to go.

No, dead men got to be boxed home to their families with an American flag and a letter touting their bravery in the face of war and fascism. They would just become a statistic. If they were lucky, someone would remember and could speak on their actions of heroism before they had been reduced to begging in the dirt or crying like babies for their mothers.

Rumlow moved to the end of the alley, and he peered around the corner of the building and saw many bodies in the streets, not all of them soldiers either. A few soldiers were on their knees, hands in the air in obvious surrender. He set his Springfield rifle around the corner enough that he could use his scope, sighting the troupe of Krauts who probably had no idea that HYDRA was no doubt sweeping through the city.

He picked out the highest ranked officer from all he had studied about arm markers. He got a bead on the man and pulled the trigger as the German had been about to execute one of the surrendered soldiers. The officer standing just behind the commander blinked as blood sprayed from the headshot. He dropped the lesser with the next bullet.

“Get up, you assholes. Run for your goddamn lives,” he growled to himself as his rifle cried and the surrendered men scrambled for their guns. He had to pause to reload and tuned out the sudden barking of many guns going off all at once, little cries of pain and brought his rifle up and around the side of the building again.

HYDRA had arrived in this section of town and left neither German or Allied soldier alive in that brief scuffle. They were here to crush both opposition and to make a declaration of independence from Nazi-Germany. They were to show their might first and then force surrender of those left behind.

Four HYDRA officers were skimming down the side of the building towards him. More were marching down the streets along with an enhanced uber tank. His rifle took out the first before they returned fire.

He had seen photos of the Tesseract enhanced weapons of the war, but pictures failed to convey the power and sound that they made when powering up and discharging. The high pitched scream tore through his head even as the wall behind him exploded into rocky shrapnel that cut into the back of his neck and sliced into his cheek. They charged fast and the blue light was disconcerting when all they had been exposed to previously was the rich red of blood and tracer light in night operations.

Rumlow stayed where he was as answering gunfire came further down the street. Back up was here, he thought as beams of blue energy streak down the street. He shifted to get a look at how many were coming and it must have been at least two platoons, though it was too dusty to identify more than the fact they were Americans.

One of the soldiers disintegrated into black ash when a beam from the HYDRA pulse rifle struck. Everyone on the ally’s side paused a single moment before pushing forward grimly, firing their unenhanced Garand rifles and moving for the little cover available.

He might have been part of HYDRA, might have been here in support of that cause more than any other, but he had a certain reputation to keep up. He had to make himself the kind of prisoner of war that would catch the Red Skull’s attention. He wouldn’t be just the next bleating sheep to be used in the work camp and die worn out and used. He had to be something more to earn that chance. 

His Springfield rifle came around the side of the building as the odds tipped in HYDRA’s favour. He lined up his sights and killed two before having to back into his alley to avoid getting incinerated himself. A huge hunk of the building edge just blew apart instead, spraying shards of rock and mortar into his face, momentarily blinding him. The sharp jagged pieces of rock cut into the skin around his eyes, forehead and cheeks. He stumbled to his left to get deeper into cover, only realizing then his helmet had been blown off his head and he had no idea where it landed. However, he was disoriented with the blood now flowing freely down his face and the high-pitched scream of the HYDRA pulse rifles in his head.

He tripped over the body of his dead spotter and wiped at his eyes, only further disorienting himself by smearing blood. Adrenaline pumped through him as his hands moved to feel for his dropped Springfield rifle. He couldn’t find it as blood coated his eyes from the many cuts on his face, but he was still desperately fumbling and feeling because being weaponless would not save him from death. He fell over another body in his haste to rise and find the wall to find a new spot to search for his rifle and instead fell into the street. He knew never to present himself as a lay-about, least of all in a field of active combat.

Brock rolled, somehow getting himself to his feet and blinking blood and dust from his eyes to find himself in the middle of the war zone currently masquerading as a street in Azzano. HYDRA agents before him, his paltry reinforcements smoking ash or surrendered behind him. A part of him wanted to lift his hands in surrender too, but the hum of those enhanced weapons was like a strange feminine lullaby. It called to him, to a fiber of his being he didn’t even know existed.

He pulled his M1911A pistol from his belt as one of the HYDRA agent’s fired upon him. The blue energy slammed into his chest and sent him flying down the street, and he first landed hard on his back then rolled ass over tea kettle several times. He skidded to a stop when he hit three dead soldiers who had helpfully died one on top of each other.

Rumlow wasn’t certain who was more surprised by his survival: himself or the HYDRA agents.

Their smiles had disappeared as he clearly appeared where he had landed, uncertainty showing in their glances at each other. No one had survived before. Maybe one of the weapons was faulty?

His uniform was rumpled and smoked but was surprisingly intact, though his chest felt bruised. He pushed himself upright, grabbing a Garand rifle from a fallen soldier’s slack grip and drawing it up to shoulder level. He had just enough time to shoot the HYDRA agent who had originally fired at him before two screaming beams of blue energy closed on him.

He threw out an arm to defend himself despite how pointless it was. The impacts knocked him back and felt like they may have dislocated his shoulder, but the world in front of him crackled with energy that flowed outwards and formed a cloudy disk that undulated briefly. Stars and cosmos filtered across the growing disk of energy. The image tightened like a drum head, rippling in time with the fast beat of his heart, and he suddenly realized the Tesseract energy was communicating in the only way it could, even in this condensed weaponized form.

It was the same thing that he had seen when he had daringly undertook this journey back to this time. He was also not the only one seeing it. HYDRA agents seemed startled by it.

Brock refused to let an opportunity slide away from him as he lifted his Garand again and open fired at the HYDRA agents who had begun to cluster. He walked forward, and the cosmos image collapsed in on itself as he passed through it, blue crackling Tesseract energy caressing his skin and drying the blood on his face. Even the droplets falling from his chin towards the ground froze in space until he stepped forward to absorb them into his rumbled uniform jacket.

Three, four, five… His Garand rifle trigger issued the typical _‘ping’_ at the same time as the en bloc clip released and nearly hit him in the temple. He abandoned the rifle and bent to pick up another Garand as he was fired upon, but this time he _knew_. He batted the shots aside, little images of the worlds beyond their own lighting up around him as he continued to fire between deflecting the Tesseract-infused energy bullets.

_It’s all in the blood._

A company had arrived further down the street as he walked forward, adding fire to his own. They were not immune to the HYDRA weapons as he was, but they brimmed with confidence that one of their own was.

The fight turned messy and chaotic, and Brock stopped when one of the HYDRA officers pushed forward and raised a P38 Luger at him. Now _that_ he couldn’t deflect, and he jumped and rolled to the side as a bullet left the chamber and no doubt passed through the spot where he had been before. He returned fire with a miss because blood on his eyelids and eyelashes together making it difficult to focus his aim well.

“Zhoot vat one,” the officer snapped with a heavy Germanic accent.

He raised his rifle at the same time as the officer redirected the P38 at him, and his rifle issued only a _ping_ and the en bloc was out. There was a sudden burn of pain in his left shoulder, and then a bolt from a HYDRA pulse rifle hit him and knocked him onto his back. He reeled and tried to roll over, successfully getting to his hands and knees before the cold bump of a Luger to the back of his head stilled him.

“Zou, American. Zou are a very interezting man. Itz time to zurrender,” the HYDRA officer said. “Zhow me your handz.”

“How about you go pound sand?” He slowly lifted his hands as the luger cocked, and if he was hoping to make enough of an impression to see the Red Skull, he suspected he had. “Do I at least get a kiss for advancing your career?”

Brock risked a glance down the street, but the company that had come up behind him was reduced eighteen members, all of which had been subdued into surrender. He blinked fresh blood from his eyes and didn’t put up a fight when two other HYDRA agents seized his arms and hauled him up. He stared at the blond man who wasn’t wearing full head-gear like most of the other HYDRA troops, trying to place the face with a known name and suddenly thought it might be Werner Reinhardt.

He was stripped of his pack and stiffened when the bone-handled knife was taken from the sheathe on his right calf. It was the only item that he had brought from the nineties, and he wasn’t readily going to give it up, regardless of the odds. “That’s my knife.”

Reinhardt took it from the agent and examined it. “Iz it? A fine blade… vhere did zou get it?”

“New York,” he gritted out.

“Yah? A real artifact zoon, zince New York iz not to last.” The blond smirked at him and smacked him in the side of the head with the butt of his knife. “A piece of history for me. I’ll remember vou vell, American.”

Brock would have lunged for the blade, but he had more self-control than that and instead allowed himself to be directed away to the back of the marching troop if HYDRA agents. He complied grudgingly when he had to put his hands behind his head and was assisted into an open-backed military truck with several other prisoners of war, blowing blood from his lips as he flopped down and then was forced to shuffle down as more Americans were crammed into the truck. It felt like they were sitting ducks for artillery or plane fire.

Their hands were tied in front of them and two HYDRA agents were charged with keeping them in line. Once the truck was full, they were driven out in the direction that HYDRA was still pouring in from. He knew from history that Azzano would fall to HYDRA in less than twenty-four hours, so fast that most men would never escape.

They were taken to an farmer’s field which had obviously been converted to a HYDRA rally point given the twelve tarpaulin trucks present and the supplies being unloaded. They were settled in large group with many guards, and more and more men were added to their ranks of captured prisoners. Once the trucks were emptied, they were divided up and crammed on, destined to the various work camps in Germany, Austria, Greece, Belgium, France and a few other countries.

In the shuffle of soldiers to various tarpaulin trucks, he spotted the broad-shouldered, dark-skinned stature of Gabriel Jones on the outskirts of a different group being marched into the back end of the truck to his right. In the close quarter shuffle, he slipped lines and joined that cue, knowing it was destined for Austria and Schmidt, though he had no doubt that the man visited all of the facilities. The Tesseract would be in Austria, and he had a feeling he’d want to be close to it.

A gunshot rang out as another man further back in the line attempted the same trick he had. Well, at least the loads were even now.

*****  
**Austrian HYDRA Work Camp - October 1943**  


The round cells in the Austrian Alps workshop were too small for every man to sit down and no one had the ability to lay down for long. It came to generalized agreement that half of them stood and the other half sat down to rest. Only one or two dared to lay down and most of the time, those men had been wounded or beaten and often didn’t rise again to complete the next shift. They were pushed hard for the sixteen hours that they were required to work in a day, and rest was only marginally difficult to come by because they were usually too tired to do more than slump off against one another. The cells only provided more room when the dead were removed.

Brock had learned early in his captivity that scratching his face was out of the question even when it itched. The few times he had made the mistake of trying to scratch off the dried blood off, he ended up finding one of the multitude of small scabs that covered his face and neck from where he had had the wall shatter sharp stones into his skin. He should probably consider himself lucky that he still had his sight.

It was his turn to sit for a few hours to try to rest. As far as he could tell, he’d been at the facility for a little under a week, but so far, there had been no sign of Schmidt. He thought he was going to have to make another impression to get to see the man, though he had noticed that the guards who were generally assigned to shove them around carried P38 Lugers as well as Tesseract-powered weapons. Clearly word about him had spread for better or worse.

He had just closed his eyes when a body came to sit next to his, which wasn’t uncommon. It was drafty and smelled horrible with so many unwashed men living together. A shoulder and arm shifted and nestled against his to get comfortable, and he heard the grunts or sighs of other men settling in for some rest. Most started to snore or mumble to themselves, whether asleep or not didn’t matter.

“Hey Bones, how long are you going to keep the dead-soldier war paint on your face?”

Brock opened one eye and flicked it to his left where voice had come from. He sighted James Barnes and just closed his eye again, since this kind of humour was common. “It’s worked well so far. I’m getting less beatings then the rest of you lumps,” he murmured. “Besides, with so little water, it seems a waste to use it on my face. I’m going for the ruggedly handsome look. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m going for the wind-swept look,” Barnes whispered, indicating that a guard was passing near the top of their cell. He objectively noted that Barnes had a faint wheeze when speaking.

“By ‘wind-swept’, you mean grimy gross Soldier who needs a good hose down?” He didn’t put any particular emphasis on any word, but in his mind, he could think of the man next to him as the future Winter Soldier. “Is there a point to your snuggling for warmth?”

Barnes shifted next to him; the guy’s jacket was looking decidedly frayed and torn. “Just to say thanks for covering for me on the floor.”

“Lohmer’s always got his eye out to have someone beaten and keeping us fighting each other,” Brock said with a wave of his hand. “I just happened to get into his way moving the heavy scrap bin so you could use those silent shoes to find your way to your work station.”

There were a few of the soldiers who had already discarded rank, country and ethnicity to help out those who wouldn’t last long. Colonel Lohmer ran their little operation, and the man had no tolerance for excuses, weakness or anything that was not an Aryan or part of the Third Reich. The man was a slave driver as much to the workforce as to the guards that monitored their progress, and because they were new, apparently it was important to make examples often to keep them cowed.

All he had done was purposefully move his cart of parts in front of Lohmer and a few guards when he had seen Barnes assisting a British soldier who was struggling to meet quota, sharing the work. It was a noble thing, and it was an opportunity for him to keep a close eye on the other sniper. He couldn’t have Barnes getting shot in the head until after his meeting with the Skull, assuming that was going to happen.

“Given the in-fighting earlier this week, the Colonel might be onto something,” Barnes said before waking the guy resting in front of them with a wet cough. “Damn, I think I’m getting a cold.”

“Fine, I’m calling you ‘Icecube’ from now on,” he replied and watched the sway and shift of men crammed together uncomfortably. “You seem like the kind of guy who can endure the cold.”

“Yeah well, I had to since a friend of mine had horrible heating in his place,” Barnes said with a low chuckle. “And given it’s October, the cold could be worse.”

“You’d know,” Brock said, the corner of his lip twisting in a smirk. It was clear that Bucky didn’t get his reference but gave an easy smile all the same. “What do you think they’ll do with us?”

They had been too tired to really think too much about it but now was opportunity to get the other man’s measure. “No idea… probably work us to death on these blue energy fueled parts. Once we’re all used up…”

“Maybe they’ll turn some of us with potential into HYDRA half-robot death soldiers,” he mused. Only one of them knew that would become a reality for a certain someone.

“Half-robot? You’ve got some imagination,” Barnes said with a chuckle that turned into another cough. “Maybe they’ll give me a new pair of lungs if I’ve got pneumonia in my current ones.”

Brock snorted and didn’t oppose when some of the men around him shifted and shuffled, arranging themselves and trying to get comfortable. Bucky came to rest against his arm and he leaned in against the other soldier as the Frenchman in front of him came to lean back a little on his raised legs. Under normal circumstances, he would have punched the guy in the back of the head, but it seemed like a waste of time and energy. He didn’t need another fight in this close quarters anyway.

The generalized low sound of men sleeping, talking or shifting suddenly went painfully still, and the round cells were met with tense quiet. He opened his eyes at the sound of hobnailed booted feet coming down the hallway, and it was too few to indicate a work group returning to their cell. He was at the back of the cell and thus couldn’t see the individuals coming down the hallway, but he saw a few men forced to stand backing away from the door of their cell.

There was the jingling sound of keys pressing into the lock, and he nudged Barnes next to him, even if he knew the guy wasn’t sleeping. Men were being man-handled out and held at gunpoint to the left of their cell until he could see exactly the makeup of the group of visitors.

It was the Red Skull, Johann Schmidt, in the lead. Colonel Lohmer was there was as well, along with the young blond, Werner Reinhardt, who had taken his knife and a small contingent of armed HYDRA officers. Their uniforms were all crisp and black, dirt-free and clearly meant to impress upon the lowly mongrels of the work facility that they lived to serve these men until their energy and lives ran out. They all looked rather impressive he had to admit. HYDRA and the Germans always knew how to cut a fine image.

Of course, Schmidt was wearing his game-face, not the natural red one at this point. He felt the cold appraisal of that gaze sweep those who hadn’t been dragged out of the cell. Searching, trying to pick out which of them was of the most interest. He hoped it was him, that this was finally his chance.

“Which one?” The Red Skull glanced at Reinhardt, voice thickened with an accent but still easily understandable.

“Zee one in zee back vith zee cutz all over hiz face,” the blond said, stiffening with formality to be spoken to. “He iz vee one you vant. Herr Schmidt.” Ah, that would be him then. 

“...Bones, what’s…” Barnes whispered next to him.

“No idea,” he lied plainly. “Nothing good, I expect. Keep my seat warm, okay?”

Brock felt a thrill that after so many months of planning, fighting and shoving his way along the lines of history that he had finally made it to the conversation that he considered to be the most important to his future. He had played over how this would go on the work line for a lack of anything else to do, but the reality was going to require his wits. It was too bad that he was so tired. He would have liked to have gone into this fresh.

Schmidt suddenly pointed a glove finger directly at him. “You. Come here, American.”

The prisoners still in the cell shifted to give the Red Skull a direct line to him, but it was Brock who pushed himself to his feet. He flexed his shoulders and walked forward, ignoring how men either avoided looking at him altogether or stared openly at him. There was a hushed whisper that rose with his passing, and he stepped out of the cell to stand in front of the leader of HYDRA, the man who had both inspired the organization he belonged to and managed to botch it.

“Reinhardt, this is the one,” the Skull asked as if unable to believe it. “You’re certain?”

“Yah, Heir Skull,” the blond officer said with a nod. “I vood not mistake him.”

Brock glanced at Reinhardt and narrowed his eyes. “I want my knife back, you asshole.”

It was Lohmer who managed to strike him across the face, pulling open many small scabs with the back-handed blow. He rocked back on his heels but stayed upright, shaking his head a little to remove the ringing sound in his ears. Blood slipped down his cheek and along his jawline to drip into his damaged uniform.

“Ah, he has a little fight in him. That’s good. Very good,” Schmidt said and waved a hand to have the prisoners shoved back into the cell he had vacated. He was given a new appraised look. “Take him upstairs to my workshop.”

He was seized by the upper arms and dragged off, though he certainly didn’t put up much of a fight either. He was going exactly to the place where he wanted to be, though he was hoping to wrangle it so that it was just himself and the Skull, though he wouldn’t be inconvenienced if Zola was there. It might even make his argument sound even better, assuming that he was given the opportunity for one.

Brock was taken to what was considered to be isolation, and Arnim Zola looked up from scratching some notes to watch him. The little man’s beady eyes assessed him with a single glance and clearly decided he was not worth much. He was walked through and into a separated, far larger space beyond a hidden wall. Machine parts were scattered over the workbench along with blueprints.

He suspected this room was based heavily on the one found in the Alps where the main bulk of HYDRA operations took place. There was no view here and the room was much smaller, especially with the table that had many broken straps on it on the other side. No doubt attempts to refine something on some poor unwitting soldier. So both Schmidt and Zola had their own work areas?

There was a strange laser-like assault rifle mounted on a tripod in the middle of the room. It was surrounded by computer terminals and thick wires leading up to it, but the hairs on the back of his neck rose at the sound of a familiar low humming. His eyes swept the room in search of it, but it had to be behind the bank of huge consoles.

The Tesseract called to him, chattering in the air like a joyous woman. Like he had found his way home. She stirred that fiber of his being as the weapons did, only stronger, like a constant tugging behind his navel to draw him closer. His blood stirred in his veins, the kind of thrill that came just before arousal set in.

He jerked his arms out of the hold on him and turned to face his guards, but they were already retreating as Schmidt prowled into the room with utmost confidence, followed by a curious Doctor Zola and Colonel Lohmer. The door was shut behind the three men, and he risked reaching up and wiping at the blood starting to clot on his cheek and temple.

“So, you are special,” Schmidt said to no one in particular. The German physicist padded towards the consoles and typed in a few commands. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe. The Allies are not special in any particular way, so thus… neither can you be, hmm?”

Brock knew where this was going right away. He frowned, waiting to prove himself before he launched into his own importance to the cause. No one would listen or believe him otherwise. He glanced behind him to check to see what he was about to be thrown back into.

The wall. _Great._

The assault rifle suddenly came to life, charging with a high-pitched noise to indicate that the Tesseract was being pulled into play. It twisted on its tripod and pointed at him, the barrel beginning to light up.

“Any last words, American?”

“I want my knife back,” Brock said stubbornly, jutting his chin out.

The enhanced rifle fired, and there wasn’t time to flinch. The beam hit him squarely in the chest and blew him off of his feet, and he both heard and certainly felt his impact with the wall behind him, felt it shudder in the same way that his ribs did. He was surprised that they didn’t crack right then and there, but his heels found the floor despite being stunned, and he shoved off the wall as the wavering image of the cosmos expanded and then collapsed in on itself a moment later.

Lohmer probably looked the most shocked. Zola was lifted a hand to adjust spectacles to make certain that his standing there intact was not an illusion of the light in the room. Schmidt was frozen at the controls, perhaps more intent on the image than his survival.

“...and zee truth shall be for superior men…” Schmidt muttered softly. Suddenly authoritative again, the Skull directed to Lohmer, “Colonel, see that we are not disturbed.”

Rumlow slowly sagged to sit on the floor, peering down his shirt to see the blackened bruise that was forming there. He was definitely going to be sore when and if he was given the chance to rest. He wiped at the blood staining his face and looked between Schmidt and Zola who were watching him as if he were little more than their next science project.

No, he thought. This was _his_ time to speak.

“My name is Brock Rumlow. I was born in 1971, and I am here to help you win the war,” he said, his expression hardening as he regarded two of the most important men in HYDRA’s history. “Hail HYDRA.”

The Red Skull slowly walked over to where he sat and looked down at him, and he could tell the man’s fingers were tapping together despite behind folded behind Schmidt’s back. “Special and insane.”

“Seems like we have that in common then,” he replied with a smirk which was not returned. “My knife, the one that Reinhardt has, is imprinted with a manufacture date of 1990. It’s authentic.”

“I have no reason to believe you are anything but a strange anomaly,” Schmidt replied. The Skull was shrewdly sizing him up, but there was enough of the man’s obvious interest that Rumlow knew he had the Skull listening to anything he had to say. For now.

This was his moment. He wasn’t going to waste it. If he failed to prove himself, he knew that Schmidt would find a use for him but not how he wanted.

He drew his legs up and rested his forearms on them, watching the Skull as he was watched in return. Zola lingered beyond their conversation, but no doubt was listening in to anything that they had to say to each other. He took his time, ordering his thoughts and ignoring the continued tingling call from the Tesseract which was slowly going back to sort of sleep.

“You are Johann Schmidt, born in Berlin of Germany and directed yourself to being a physicist, but your interests lie in Norse mythology, particularly on the magical artifacts of those tales.” He had the Skull’s entire focus now. “You are also most interest in seeking the higher potential of men, hence why you undertook Erskine’s serum before testing phase. The face you’re wearing now is what you used to look like, but it’s just a mask for how the serum altered you. You never told him that his wife and children died horribly in Dachau, did you?”

He didn’t flinch when the Skull slipped a prototype of a Tesseract-enhanced Luger out of a hip holster. He was unblinking as the weapon began to charge, and he wondered if it a shot to the head would kill him with impact even if not with its energy.

“HYDRA was founded on the belief that mankind couldn’t be trusted with its own freedom. However, when you try to take their freedom away, even for their own good, they resist,” he said, speaking quickly because he understood that his time was limited. “You are assumed dead in a botched attempt to use the Valkyrie to destroy the Eastern seaboard, but Doctor Zola expands the organization beyond anything you did. It expanded beyond Germany and Europe, and it has become an underground following, a way of life.”

The Luger slowly powered down as Schmidt released pressure on the trigger. Arnim Zola had drawn closer to their conversation, eyeing him with a scientific interest. He was probably the biggest and one of the more hairless guinea pigs the guy had considered taking apart lately.

“How did you come to be here, if what you say is true?” Schmidt didn’t sound quite as skeptical as before.

“The Tesseract,” he said simply. “She can create portals in space, but time in relative. Give Her a directive, and you can apparently go backwards. I’ve been in this time since late May.”

“And what directive did you use to end up here?”

“I murdered one of my fellow candidates and spilled his blood all over the active Tesseract to give Her a guide on where I needed to be to have the most impact,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders as if the explanation was all very simple. 

He knew that the technical team had done something to imprint on the energy source as well, setting a year and a place, but the candidates hadn’t been able to accomplish the task before him. Maybe there was something about him, but he hadn’t allowed himself to take the time to consider it much. He was focused on his task, and that seemed enough for him. Once he had set HYDRA on the path of completing the ultimate objective, he could take that time or continue to ignore it.

“How is it the Tesseract came to protect you against Her own energies?” This was from Zola, the first time the little man had spoken.

Brock glanced towards the area where he knew the Tesseract to be housed. “I don’t know. Maybe She likes me.”

“Or perhaps the Tesseract has invested in you the same that it has invested in the weapons that HYDRA is creating. Energy cannot be created or destroyed, just altered in its appearance,” Johann Schmidt said. “The human body is a conduit of potential energy.”

“A sample of blood may theoretically explain some differences,” Arnim said, watching him as a snake watches an injured mouse. “It could even… assist with my current project.”

Ah yes, about that… Brock slowly set his hands on the floor and pushed himself upright again despite the pain his back. “The super-soldier serum worked on Doctor Erskine’s subject. You can’t make anything to compete with its superiority,” he said, watching Zola’s face redden with damaged pride. “However, you come pretty damn close. Your greatest success with it is right here in the facility. You just don’t know it yet.”

“Go on,” Zola said, suddenly breathless hint of excitement. “Who…”

“Enough,” Schmidt interrupted the conversation topic with a single word. Zola subsided with reluctance, casting little glances at the Skull. “You said Erskine’s subject was a success? I have seen this apparent ‘success’. He’s a dancing monkey of no threat.”

Brock bristled at the arrogance; there was room for it when knowing ones opposition. “You’re going to eat those words,” he said coldly. “That subject is going to meet you head-to-head, and you’re going to have to contain him sooner than later or risk losing your opportunity with the Valkyrie.”

“Nonsense. His films are intriguing, but he will be crushed under my thumb. I am, in all ways, superior to this clown,” Schmidt said was an air of a man entirely confident in their own abilities. It almost might have been a fair amount of megalomania, but who could fault Schmidt for it when the guy was clearly brilliant… just insane.

If Rumlow wasn’t aware of the path of history, he probably would have been wooed into the security of Schmidt’s confidence. Instead, he could see it only as a danger to them all and the ideals of HYDRA. Instead, he knew that underestimating Steve Rogers was one of the worst thing any man could do. HYDRA would do well to remember that, especially since he knew that Rogers would be showing up in less than a month to knock on the front door.

He gritted his teeth and held his tongue, glancing at Zola who was looking between them with a slimy cunning. For a moment, he wondered if the true face of what HYDRA would become was that man there, not Schmidt in front of him. How would he know for certain? Time would tell, assuming he lived long enough to commit himself to the cause.

“I’m at your disposal,” he said softly, nodding towards the Skull. “I live and serve HYDRA and its ideals, sir. I’ll give you information on the war that you’ll regret not taking into consideration in your operations.”

He and Schmidt regarded each other for a long time, and he was hard-pressed not to see the similarities between them. They both had very large missions ahead of them. They both had trouble trusting others to the extent necessary to work together in this. However, both of them plainly realized the importance of having the other around because it was clear that their unique abilities made them stronger than average as allies.

“You will work with the other prisoners,” Johann Schmidt said with a new appraising look. “And you will report to certain agents any valuable information that you learn from the other prisoners. I’m sure you can figure out what would interest me. It will also show me that you are not a weakling either, so prove yourself well.”

He nodded his head and knew that his interview was as good as over. He rubbed the back of his shoulder with a hand to feel for his new bruising that he had acquired. It was worth knowing where he was going, though he expected to perhaps have a few more words with Schmidt to ascertain if this really was the man to take HYDRA to the full-encompassing freedom that he believed so strongly in.

“Sir, I’d like to… test his capabilities and interactions with the Tesseract,” Arnim said softly, peering at Schmidt. “An opportunity like this doesn’t come about…”

“Quite right, Doctor Zola. Quite right,” the Skull agreed. The look that Schmidt shot the scientist cut off any smile from forming. “However, you have your own project that you will concentrate on, and you will do so.”

“Yes sir…” Zola gave him a single calculating look.

“However, my current projects are mostly completed, and given my own personal association with the Tesseract, I will undertake this investigation,” Schmidt said with utmost confidence. “I’m always very interested in the strength bestowed upon unlikely characters.”

Rumlow kept his face impassive to the notion that he was going to become Schmidt’s personal guinea pig. He also knew better than to voice complaint, and he too would like to have some kind of answers as to what was going on with him and why the Tesseract’s power couldn’t kill him.

The Red Skull turned to look at him and offered only a professional smile. “Return to your cell and await my instructions.”

Brock wanted to growl but held it in; he had so much to give. “Yes sir,” he replied instead and headed for the door that he knew would allow him to be taken back to his cramped cell.

He was escorted halfway back before he was beaten by the guards, and any progress to healing the cuts on his face was over as the scabs were torn off with the punches or new ones added. Lohmer simply chuckled and dragged him back the rest of the way to the circular cells where soldiers of many countries stared at his bloody face and had any sort of second thoughts about tangling with either the Colonel or Schmidt.

He had no idea how he got back to his seat at the back, but he was settled there by hands and abandoned to find his own version of a comfortable spot. He slumped down and groaned, arching his back slightly as firm but gentle hands searched his chest and shoulders with practiced skill.

“Did he kick you in the chest?” It was Barnes, ready and willing to help him for owed debts on the floor. Or maybe out of practice for spending so long cleaning up Rogers from fights. “They did a number on your face.”

“Do you think I’ll be pretty again, Doc?”

Barnes snorted and removed the tatters of the man’s jacket and began to dab at the bleeding cuts and forming bruises on his face. “I think you’ll stick with being ruggedly handsome, Bones.”

He tried to smile, but it opened up the cut on his lower lip. “He didn’t agree to brainwashed half-robot soldiers, but I tried for you just so you could see it wasn’t just my imagination.”

“Well, you gave it a shot and that’s all that counts,” Bucky replied with a half-smile that turned into a cough.

“Ew, cooties,” he said as he leaned his head back on the metal bars.

“Hey, I’ve had plenty of dames that want my cooties since I put on the uniform,” Barnes replied with feigned injured dignity. “And I’m taking care of your bleeding face, so stay still, will you?”

Rumlow closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of men moving around and the groans of injured soldiers or sleeping men. A part of him wanted to tell Barnes that Rogers was coming, but he hadn’t revealed that he knew the skinny kid from Brooklyn just yet. Sometimes hope was all that kept a man going.

“Tell me one of your damn outrageous stories, Barnes,” he muttered. “At least until I get to sleep.”

“You got it, pal,” Bucky said, still dabbing at his bleeding face. “So Brooklyn is almost ninety-percent docks…”

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is believed that Viscountess Astor, a British MP, coined the phrase "D-Day Dodgers", and it was a term to reference the men who fought their way up the 'soft underbelly' of Europe through Sicily and up Italy. The men in this front felt that their sacrifices were ignored in the face of the runs of the Allied Nations up Normandy beaches, as if they were 'dodging' real combat.
> 
> Thank you very much everyone who took the time to read my work, and I appreciate any comments and kudos that I receive!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I will used dubious science to do whatever I want. I mean, Marvel does it all the time, and if you can justify it, you can do it. Not too much obvious violence in this, so there are no particular warnings about that. And of course, the dates are kind of arbitrary in order for people to follow along with where they are in the war effort, since there are some important dates that are historically accurate, and I will be using them.
> 
> Also, the next chapter might be late because I'm doing some courses which will probably sap my will to write. I will try to keep things on schedule, but this is just a warning that it might be over 2 weeks before the next update here. Hopefully this chapter will wet people's appetite's enough to wait impatiently.

*****  
**Austrian HYDRA Work Camp - November 1943**  


“Doctor Zola.”

Slowly, Arnim lifted his head from the notes that he was scratching down and regarded his superior over the top of his spectacles. Behind him, his fundamental project was strapped to the table to limit the amount of twitching, but its current success brought a sense of accomplishment that would be brief and then drive him to advance his creations further. He jutted out his lower lip a little at the slightly fuzzy image that Johann presented to him.

Ah, he was going to have to endure more gloating. Such was life being a man of science, medicine and technology in this regime.

He pushed off of his work bench, ignoring the soft groan from the twitching body behind him and walked to where Schmidt had his own hidden work room. He knew the reason for it, so that when the man wanted to work, it would be undisturbed as he was left to handle the running and drive of the facility. He didn’t mind; he was perfectly capable of keeping the production line working despite the dwindling workforce and the loss of Colonel Lohmer a week and a half ago.

Armin paused in the doorway of Johann’s workshop, drinking in the scene with scientific objectivity. His superior was over by a work table near where he knew the Tesseract was temporarily being used on a side experiment. Various insulated cables snaked the floor and crawled their way up the surgical table and were attached with reinforced metal clamps to the pale corpse-looking man strapped to the table. The clamps had wicked looking bruises surrounding them, no doubt looking worse based on the whiteness of the Tesseract’s pet.

He approached after assessing that the Tesseract wasn’t actively being used and wandered over to Johann’s work table where his superior was holding up a sample of clear straw-like serum with the thick mat of red cells at the bottom of the glass vial. No doubt from Johann’s current endeavors.

“So, no change in his serum levels?”

“No?” Johann stepped around him to where the Tesseract was housed. His superior tapped the glass lightly on the side of the containment metal and blue light lit up the edges of the canister. The serum also lit up bright blue, clearly different from a few weeks ago. “The Tesseract has somehow changed his being to be able to convert the energies stored in his body for use. It responds to the source, of course.”

Arnim stared at the sample that Johann was admiring with one of those superior smiles. “You have concluded that he speaks the truth?”

“Ah Doctor, the truth is a murky and yet unestablished creature. I have proven the Tesseract won’t kill him, and that makes him very useful. I believe he is at capacity.” Johann shook the glass vial, sending up clots of red blood cells that masked the fading blue light in the serum.

He pushed his spectacles up higher on his nose. “What will you do with him?”

“He is convinced he has a mission to complete as a spy, and we haven’t a mole within the ranks of the SSR yet. He is convinced that Captain America is coming for your special project.” Neither of them were particularly convinced, though Arnim admitted his refusal was based on improbability rather than because he felt in any way slighted by Erskine’s accomplishments. “How is your project, Doctor?”

He smiled, always willing to talk of his accomplishments with another like-minded individual who understood and utilized the brilliance of his work. “His path of self-healing has been established,” he said with a sniff of pride. “Already his ribs have healed well and his pneumonia has cleared. I have pushed him under the impression that our new ally is correct that my project will survive the rigors.”

Johann regarded him for a moment before acknowledging his accomplishment with a nod. “But not better than Erskine’s serum?”

He twitched in his spot, disliking how his work was compared to Erskine, though he suspected it was not personal against him. Johann liked to consider himself superior to all. “Given I have no means of assessing this apparent new success, I won’t risk commenting.” He was, after all, working with the blood that Johann provided, not that of the subject Erskine created.

“The world is HYDRA’s for the taking. These pet project will only put us closer to ruling the world as we are meant to, as superior men,” Johann said with a faint smile. “Once the Valkyrie is functional, I will stand atop the bodies of my enemies and prove myself superior to them all.”

Arnim bowed his head slightly. “And our projects?”

“They will be deployed with the utmost vigor to reduce any resistance and prove our might.” Johann seemed quite pleased, and if the Skull was in a good mood, that meant well for them all. “Assuming your project does as well as mine, of course.”

Yes, of course. He managed to hold in a watery-eyed glare and gave only a little smile. He glanced at the pale man from their future and, not for the first time, wondered about a few things the man had said. He approached and looked down into the face of Rumlow, and he wondered if the Tesseract had switched alliances slightly.

Could the new world order of ultimate freedom truly be achieved under Herr Skull? Or was it the slow knife, the patient blade that slipped in and disemboweled their enemies from within that would bring about a lasting peace?

Arnim supposed that it didn’t matter. He cared for watching his designs function and creating new specimens and pressing the advancement of mankind along its path of evolution. As long as he had that, the head of HYDRA did not matter. Just so long as it succeeded.

HYDRA would never die so long as one man, woman or child believed. Indeed… those were wise words from a man nearly half their age.

*****

Compared to the rush of combat and flight of the prisoners, the hallway was deadly quiet. The only real sound was of his boot hitting the cement as he peered through the darkness, blind but determined to find evidence of what he was looking for. He hurried more because his adrenaline was set to the highest point, and it had been since he had jumped alone out of the plane. There was something crazy about doing this, but it seemed like a feasible idea with how tireless and strong he was. Like anything was possible if he just set his mind to it.

This was the first long-term test of his new body and the working serum. So far, it was holding up remarkably well, better than when he was running barefoot through Brooklyn.

Now if only he could find evidence that Bucky was alive and well. With the prisoners of war creating their own level of havoc, he could concentrate on that alone. He had come to break his friend out of this place or find solid evidence that Sergeant James Barnes had died. A considerable part of him refused to acknowledge that possibility.

He jogged down the hallway and slowed at the darkened shape of a small man with a jacket and a briefcase further down the way. His dark vision was far better than it used to be, and he set his face as the man turned and fled, following until he reached the room that the small man had vacated. He made a split decision to check out the room first for evidence before pursuing the man, who he thought he’d be able to catch up to at a dead run.

Steve stepped into the room that he immediately took to be isolation. His gaze swept the dimly lit work areas and was momentarily aghast at the strange technology, the sharp instruments tucked away, jars of… well, who knew what, and then there was the table where a body lay still but his keen ears picked up soft muttering. He knew that voice anywhere.

Elation chased his fear away as he crossed the distance and looked down into Bucky’s dirty disoriented face. “Bucky!” His gaze swept down the restraints, and he pushed down the nausea that wanted to choke him. “My God,” he muttered as he grabbed the clips that held the restraints to the table and tore them off.

Blue eyes flicked and began to focus on him, and he slapped a palm against his best friend’s cheek. “Bucky, it’s Steve.” He smiled in the face of confusion that greeted his declaration, but there was no time for long pleasantries.

“Steve…?”

He helped Bucky up, and he worried that his friend was too unsteady to walk at all. Still, the relief at finding Bucky far outweighed the fear that finally receded from the doubting part of his mind and brought back that surge of confidence in full. He clapped Bucky on the cheek again, smiling. “I thought you were dead,” he acknowledged, relief evident in his tone.

“I… thought you were shorter,” Bucky replied, clearly unable to fully cope with the idea that he was now the taller one between them.

Steve pulled his friend close and looked around for evidence that there were others that needed assistance, and his eyes caught on a map hanging on the wall. His eyebrows drew together as he stared at it, drinking in the little flags that indicated places of importance to the Nazis. He let Bucky stagger a bit, not wanting to carry his friend though he would.

Finally, when he thought he had the information, he slipped an arm around his best friend’s waist and began to help Bucky walk. His friend was uncoordinated and staggering, barely able to help him even in the simple act of walking. He wondered if Bucky even knew what happened, but it was neither the time or the place for such discussions.

“What happened to you,” Bucky managed as his friend struggled to keep feet from dragging across the floor.

“I joined the army,” he replied as he focused on the door that would take them back to the hallway and then they could join the rest of the men who had survived the escape. He didn’t let himself wonder what the heck he was going to do once he returned to the SSR. It had been the right thing to do, that was all.

Suddenly, a flicker of blue caught his eye as he was escorting Bucky out of the room, and he froze as smoky wisps of blue faded as a man leaned pale and heavy against a wall leading to another room he hadn’t even noticed. It was the angle of how the place was set up, an illusion to make a wall seem full rather than having a doorway.

The man leaning heavily on the doorway looked up with a ghostly paleness. “Rogers… you got big…”

“Rumlow!”

Steve had never found out where a lot of the other men of Project Rebirth had been assigned, but he was surprised to find Brock here and looking far worse for wear. He looked at Bucky clinging to him and experienced a moment of indecision, aware that having two men in dire conditions would slow him down considerably. However, he was not going to leave a man behind, not even a lost cause and he had Brock had been friends.

“Here, Buck, just lean on this doorframe a minute, okay,” he said, gently letting his friend cling to the door frame of the room, though he noted that Bucky nodded at him and was watching Brock who had begun to sag heavily to the floor.

Steve rushed over and gathered the smaller man up just before Rumlow was going to sink to the floor entirely. There was sweat covering Brock’s skin, and a part of him felt a strange draw to this man who couldn’t even stand. He looked into the room that Brock had come from and saw a similar table to what Bucky had been strapped to, but all of the restraints were intact as if a body was supposed to be there.

How had Brock gotten out of them?

“...hurry…” Brock said softly.

“Right, we’re getting out of here,” he said and pretty much carried Rumlow over to where Bucky was looking stronger and less disoriented.

He slipped an arm around Bucky’s waist and helped both men along as quickly as he could. The hallway was deserted and the alarm could still be heard blaring in all of the working areas, and he knew that it was going to be hell getting out with two men that were unable to help themselves and were weaponless. It didn’t deter him one bit though.

As the moved, he noted that Bucky was getting stronger and eventually left his side to stumble along with him. He slowed his pace a little, hoping that Brock would recover the same, but Rumlow looked, if anything, paler than before and on the verge of dying. He hugged the smaller man against his side and took them all down the hallway, telling Bucky about the experiment that he and Brock had been in training for which had resulted in his change.

Bucky moved along stronger and stronger with each step. “Did it hurt?”

“A little,” Steve replied as he looked around and found a stairwell to lead them up to another level.

“Is it permanent?”

“So far,” he said and lifted Brock up into his arms as he began to ascend the stairs and took them onto the platforms that were over the workshop. There were multiple places to go, and his eyes darted for the quickest and easiest way to leave as Rumlow sagged in his arms. The sudden explosions made the situation a bit more desperate, and he knew they had to find a way out fast. He charged along a gangplank towards one that would allow them to cross to the other side of the compound, which he knew would let them out on the grounds.

“Captain America! How exciting!”

His gaze darted across the way, and he allowed his expression to harden as he sighted not only the small man who had been in the hallway outside of isolation but Johann Schmidt. He didn’t fight when Bucky reached out and took Brock from him, though he knew that the pair would have no energy to fight if this turned into one.

“I’m a great fan of your films.” That had to be mockery.

Steve began to cross the gangplank towards Schmidt’s side, willing to defend his allies to the death but also to avenge Doctor Erskine, who had been a great man. His impression of Schmidt was of a man confident in his own skin, as Steve felt like he was growing into himself after Project Rebirth. There was an erring confidence that exuded from the leader of HYDRA, and he could see immediately why there was such a cult following for the man.

They approached each other from across the gangplank. It was Schmidt who clearly wanted this confrontation, especially with the explosions going on beneath them. “So Doctor Erskine managed it after all. Not exactly an improvement but still… impressive.” He didn’t like the way that Schmidt was studying him, like he was not particularly worth looking at for a long time. He was used to that.

He still punched Schmidt in the face, though it was more on Erskine’s behalf than his own. “You’ve gone no idea.”

“Haven’t I…?” He managed to get his shield up just in time to block the return punch. It was his turn to look surprised at the fist-shaped impression that warped the metal. He immediately went for his M1911 sidearm, but Schmidt managed to land a solid punch on his cheek, knocking him backwards and losing his weapon over the side of the gangplank.

“Ugh… sloppy, Rogers,” a low voice barely reached his ears even as he got his feet up to kick Schmidt away from him.

“Come on, Bones, no snappy comments while Steve is concentrating,” Bucky chided softly. The commentary was entirely unnecessary and yet totally like the two men.

By then, the gangplank was pulling apart, separating them and while he could have made the jump, he wasn’t about to leave James and Brock behind. He instead glared at Schmidt and only peripherally was aware of the interest that the small man - Zola he thought - was giving to his two allies leaning heavily on each other and the railing.

“No matter what lies Erskine told you... you see, I was his greatest success.” He was prepared for some kind of big reveal, but he had never seen a man peel their own face off before. To his left, Brock made a soft noise that made him wonder if the man was about to be sick all over the place.

Bucky, ever the witty one, managed a little better. “You don’t have one of those, do you?” He glanced over, seeing his friend suddenly scrutinizing him as if looking for a seam where his skin stopped and some grotesque red pigment might be peeking through.

Steve gave his friend a small shake of his head, but it was Schmidt’s voice that drew him back to the scene at hand. The explosions and heat raged beneath them, and a part of him knew that they were just wasting time from their escape toiling like this trying to have the last word. All he knew was that they were going to escape and that Schmidt was running away.

“You are deluded, Captain. You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality, you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind.” The mask that had hidden the Red Skull’s true face fluttered into the flames, yet he was given the distinct impression that Schmidt wasn’t just talking about him anymore. “Unlike you, I embrace it proudly. And without fear.”

Steve narrowed his eyes as Zola and Schmidt made for the elevator and no doubt a safe escape for themselves. “Why are you running?”

There was no way to stop the pair, yet he glanced over when the Red Skull’s gaze flicked from him to regard the pair to his left as if appraising their use in the future. He gritted his teeth, but he was forced to back off when a huge wave of fire and heat blew himself and Bucky back from the railing. Brock followed only because there was no choice but to stumble backwards with Bucky.

He looked between the two, but he noted that Brock’s eyes were bright with what might have been fever based on the blue discolouration of the man’s scleras. It was probably just a trick of the light. He reached out and took Rumlow from Bucky and seized a line of chain in their way before hurrying James up before him as he half-carried Brock up at the rear.

They found the only plausible escape route as the building around them began to come down around them in earnest. He touched Bucky’s shoulder. “You first. I’m going to have to carry Brock over, and I want you on the other side to take him from me.”

Bucky nodded and glanced at Brock who managed no protest to the plan. His friend began the treacherous walk across the rattling support beam, but not even halfway across, he knew that he could never make it. He was now heavier than Bucky and with Rumlow’s added weight to his own, he didn’t think it would support him. He soon didn’t have to worry about it because the support beam collapsed anyway, but Bucky was safe on the other side. That was what mattered most in his mind, the reason he had come here in the first place.

“There’s got to be a rope or something,” James said.

“Just go on…!”

“No, not without you two,” Bucky snapped at him, the whiteness of his friend’s grip on the railing indicating that James would not leave without him.

“Just go… you’ll have to jump it,” Brock muttered, still leaning heavily against his side. “Leave me behind. I’m just dead weight.”

Steve shook his head and suddenly kicked a distorted bar that stretched the way between a clear line from him to Bucky. It bent, and it took a second kick to give him enough room to have a clear jump before he was shifting Brock up his body.

“I don’t leave men behind. I especially don’t leave friends behind,” he said fiercely. “Arms around my neck and get your legs up around my waist.”

Rumlow gave him a clearly skeptical look, but was in no position to fight him as he felt those pale arms curl around his neck weakly and he helped to hike Brock’s weight up his back. He locked his arms around Brock’s thighs when the man’s legs slipped and weakened around his waist before walking back the distance as far as he could go, psyching himself up as he stared at Bucky’s earnest stressed expression on the other side.

“Look where you want to go and concentrate on nothing else,” Brock murmured into his ear. “Give it all you have, Braveheart.”

Steve shoved off hard, getting two huge ground eating steps before he was at the end of his running room, and he shoved hard, feeling Brock’s breath on the back of his neck. He began his arc across the distance that separated him and Bucky, his hands leaving Brock’s legs to reach forward as if to take hold of the railing on the other side.

“No, don’t!” Bucky’s voice reached him as the explosion below them almost swallowed them up in fire and smoke.

Suddenly, there was less weight against him before booted feet wedged on the small of his back, and Rumlow was shoving him the rest of the way. “Brock, no!”

He twisted in the air as his friend fell backwards towards a burning death, tired smirk evident even as Brock slipped away. His waist slammed into the railing, and he caught a foot on the edge of the new platform. Bucky had his arms to prevent him from jumping backwards as Brock disappeared into a cloud of smoke.

“Rumlow!”

“Bones!”

There was a blink of blue light down amid the shaking explosions.

It was Steve that saw the similar blink of blue light far to their right, and he was shocked to see Rumlow laid out on the gangplank. He scrambled over the railing with Bucky’s help, and his friend followed his gaze, and they both hurried to where Brock had fallen, breathing and alive but clearly weakened and unconscious.

“How in the hell…?”

“Let’s get out of here,” Steve said, aware that there were few answers. The blue light had been exactly the same as what he had seen in those parts that HYDRA had been building. He knew that Bucky realized it too. “We don’t have time to investigate. Help me get him on my back and let’s go. You’ll have to take point, Buck.”

“Right,” his best friend said with a determined nod.

All that was important now was that they escaped.

*****  
**Italian Border - November 1943**  


It was their last night before they were expected to reach the SSR encampment, and the four hundred some men that had managed to escape had not split off to go their separate ways. Most were pushing beyond the boundaries of exhaustion. All of them were hungry, and Steve had made the conscious decision to stop by a small river so that all the men could have their fill of the clean water provided.

They had lost very few men on the way back across the Allied line of defense. HYDRA had been pulled back with the fall of the factory, and they had enough men to protect their line and scatter any opposition. It helped that they basically had a tank corp as well as men all armed with weapons. It was enough to have most of the Germans and HYDRA in the area to think twice about attacking them.

Despite their size, all the men mingled together without boundaries of country or ethnicity. He suspected that most were too tired to care at this point. Sleeping against Brit was just as comfortable as sleeping against an American, and the men had all been forcibly separated into different countries for the last few months to mingle, so few had opposition in the face of their freedom.

Steve had kept the front of the line and no one opposed his being there. In fact, many of the men found sleeping spots clustered around where he had decided to take up residence for the night. Bucky was always by his side, and between the two of them, Brock was taken care of too, despite the man barely ever being conscious since the incident in the factory.

He leaned against a tree, his leather jacket currently being used as a makeshift blanket for Brock who was sleeping heavily against his side. One arm was curled around Brock’s waist to hold the man in place and Bucky leaned on the same tree to his left. In this way, they could put their heads together and have quiet conversation.

“Does he know?”

“Does who know what?” Steve turned his head to look at Bucky next to him.

Bucky gave him the usual look that was required when his friend thought that he was being particularly daft. He raised an eyebrow before his attention turned back as Rumlow shifted and nestled down more on his chest. A part of him worried that Brock might not actually wake again, given the complete lassitude.

“Come on, Steve,” James said. “The way you look at him reminds me of that dame Gloria I introduced you to. It’s obvious you wanted to get to know her.”

Steve shot a look at Bucky before glancing around at the surrounding men, but all that surrounded them was the deep breathing of many sleeping bodies. Most were too exhausted to be able to pretend sleeping, and the watch patrols he had set were further out beyond them. Still, they both knew this wasn’t a topic to discuss or even hint at in the presence of male company. It was a horrible risk, a frustrating unfair one but a risk all the same.

“It’s nothing, Buck. He’s a friend, the only other person outside of you to believe in me from the start.” He was glad it was dark for this. He could feel his face heating with a flush.

“So you never asked…”

“You know it’s not something I can do,” Steve replied, slightly impatient. “Besides, Agent Carter…”

“Ah, so there’s a dame in the picture too, huh?”

He drew a deep breath and held it, asking for patience even if he couldn’t help the flare of fondness that came in the face of Bucky’s usual antics. “It’s not what you think…”

James issued a soft laugh. “Come on, I know better than anyone you have too much love to keep to yourself.” It was the usual teasing, and he accepted it graciously. “All those dames I introduced to you just couldn’t take the sheer amount of love and care you could put out.”

Steve sighed and lightly bumped his temple against Bucky’s. It was true that he had never felt the usual restrictions that came in their age, that a man was to love a woman and all other forms of love in the eyes of God earned on only Damnation. He liked who he liked, and yes, there had been a few dames he had been attracted to, but he could appreciate gents in the same way, though any interest he might have in that way was strictly between himself and Bucky, who was accepting of him in all things. It had been Bucky to point out that he carried too few restrictions and how to guard himself against suspicion. He supposed it helped that he was too sick to be worthwhile material on either side.

Yet, there had been more than a few moments when he had thought that Brock might accept any advance that he might put forward. There was something in how focused Rumlow was, the no-care attitude when it came to the opinion of others, and the ability to stand out in a crowd without doing much more than shifting weight. Now more than ever, there was a strange draw to the man sleeping against his side.

“I hope he survives,” he murmured softly, turning his head to observe Brock in the dark.

“He’s resting, and that’s all we can do for him right now. Once we get back to this base you came from, we can get him medical assistance,” Bucky said. He listened to the sound of his friend shifting against the tree. “Until then, you’re going beyond the call of duty for him.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence, and he tried not to be obvious about his fussing with the jacket or the way that his hand continually shifted to feel the gentle slow beat of Brock’s heart in the man’s breast. It hadn’t changed since they had settled down, and he wondered about the impossibility of Rumlow’s survival. How could a man be falling and then appear somewhere else? Then again, how could a German scientist turn a scrawny man like him into a super-soldier?

Beside him, Bucky shifted and relaxed down into the dirt, head pillowed on an arm. He curled over slightly, tucking Brock tight to his side even as he watched his best friend. There was something sad in Bucky, and he knew his friend well enough to know that only time would heal it. He would be there as support.

“So, how does it feel to be a Captain, hmm? Did they make you take officer training,” Bucky asked, watching him in the darkness.

“No, most of my training came from me experimenting with skills and teaching myself between the show tours,” he explained gamely. “We did some military camp shows, so I was able to get out and train with some of the reservists on weapons mostly. The rank was given by Senator Brandt, but I don’t think anyone expected me to do anything with it.”

Bucky snorted softly in amusement. “They are going to learn quickly not to estimate Steve Rogers. Your noggin’ is thicker than a church wall.”

They both enjoyed snorts of laughter at that, having to keep it quiet so as not to disturb the other men sleeping around them. This was probably what camping was supposed to feel like, but they had never gotten out of the city to do it together. Nothing like chuckling in the woods close to enemy territory with four hundred odd strangers in the middle of November.

“This Italian campaign seemed harsh,” he reflected once their laughter had died down. “A lot of civilians are starving and the graves…”

James went for a pensive silence and then reached out to poke him in the shoulder. “Italians steal shoes.”

“Pardon me?”

“Yep, the greasy critters will sneak into Kraut pillboxes and snap the shoes right off of them,” Bucky said with cocky know-how. “Fast like you wouldn’t believe, Stevie. So damn poor the Italians are that they take the shoes off of dead soldiers. I guess they don’t need them anymore…”

It was so outlandish that Steve snorted with amusement again. “How do you even know that?”

Bucky shifted closer to him as if sharing a secret, but he knew it was more not to disturb the other men around them. “Do you really want to hear my story, Rogers?”

“I see your perchance of holding out until someone pleads with you for the facts hasn’t changed,” he remarked dryly. He rolled his eyes expressively at the punch he received for his assessment. “Okay fine, tell me your story, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Oh you’re going to like this one,” Bucky replied, sounding more animated than necessary. Over-exaggerating to hide the hurts, fatigue and scars from the facility. He had seen it in the other men, and he had seen it on the thirty mile walk that they had endured to get to this point. He still made a sound of encouragement.

“Right so, there I was on my belly crawling up this damn slope with a Kraut pillbox dug into the hill, and I got Dugan fifty meters to my left doing the same. Krauts had dug in the whole hill, and casualties were high, but the guys had been real quiet because we weren’t moving much that night. So there I go crawling, crawling, crawling and trying not to move any of the rocks,” Barnes was saying, adding worming motions to denote crawling. He felt a chill from listening. “I keep my head down real low, and I’ve got my Johnstone rifle held so close I was afraid it would go off.

“Look to my left, Dugan is pulling a grenade and slipping it through the artillery hole. Damn well thought he was crazy not to lob it in,” his friend said, voice raising with a hissing whisper. “I crawl up to the edge of the box to get a grenade in myself when I freeze just looking in at the brightest pair of blue eyes staring at me.”

Steve inhaled appropriately and clutched Brock against him, fully taken with this tale, though he knew that Bucky survived this encounter. It was still all very edgy for him who had seen so little active combat. “Did you have to change your fatigues, Barnes?”

“No, shut up and let me finish, punk,” Bucky hissed at him, slapping his shoulder and nearly hitting Brock in the process. That earned a hiss from him in return, but they were back on that hill very soon. “I thought I was a dead man, just staring down his rifle, but he didn’t shoot. After a took my heart out of my throat, I realized he was already dead. Three Krauts dead, Stevie, torn up by the artillery barrage just before dark.”

“And,” he said, urging on because this was getting to where he knew the punch line was.

Bucky relished his encouragement. “So peering in, they had all their gear, but they were being picked at by flies. Then I look down and none of them were wearing their boots. Weapons were intact, but boots… goners. Damn Italians crept in and just stole them right off the Kraut’s feet. Dugan reported the same thing in his pillbox. All dead Krauts, no shoes.”

It wasn’t funny, Steve knew. The tale was grand and put perfect emphasis on the entire point of the story, but he felt a tightness in his stomach as he realized the risks and sorry state that the Italian civilians suffered. They were so desperate they would sneak into pillboxs to steal boots from the dead. Men died quickly to war, but the non-combatants suffered a long time. How many children would starve in this country? On the same line, how many soldiers risked themselves like Bucky and Dugan had just to get a chance to save some of their own?

Still, he knew that he couldn’t show that right now. Bucky had come back to life next to him, and he wanted to keep it that way. “What about their socks?”

“It’s debatable if Krauts wear socks,” Barnes said cheekily.

“I wonder if HYDRA troops wear socks,” he mused in return, his hand stroking down Rumlow’s arm.

Of course, his best friend had to take it further. “In those tight fashionable suits, I wonder if there’s room for underwear.”

“Next dead HYDRA officer we find, you’re checking,” he replied, reaching beyond his jacket to poke his friend in the chest. “That’s an order from your Captain.”

Bucky made a soft choking noise of indignation, and he knew the only reason that his friend didn’t jump on him to fight him was because Brock was between them and they were supposed to be quiet. Soon enough they were snickering like a couple of kids instead, amused by the absurdity of their situation and their own remarks to one another.

The silence that followed left him believing that Bucky had gone to sleep next to him, but when he finished once again fussing with his jacket, he found his friend reaching out to set it right. That was just something that Bucky did all the time.

Yet, he had another question nagging at him. “Do you know what they were doing to you and him?”

His friend stilled next to him. “I don’t know,” came the soft reply. “Schmidt took an interest in him right near the start of our arrival. I hear that all those HYDRA weapons that reduce a man to ash don’t work on him.”

“Really?”

“That’s the rumor, and it explains why Schmidt was so interested in him.” Bucky sighed heavily. “They took Bones more often, but he always returned. He was the only one who ever came back from isolation, but… the longer time went on, the less of him came back, I think.”

“Aside from you, that is,” Steve pointed out, looking through the darkness towards the shape of Bucky next to him. He knew his friend was avoiding talking about what had happened. “You survived too, Buck.”

James made a soft grunting sound as acknowledgement. “We should get some shut-eye while we can.”

He sighed and let the subject go, turning his head so he rest his temple against Bucky’s. His friend moved to accommodate and they went to sleep pressed together as was their usual arrangement. He vowed to make certain that Bucky was at least checked out by medical when they returned, though he wouldn’t mention that his friend had been part of some experiment. He knew nothing good could come from that.

*****

**London, England - December 1943**  


Colonel Phillips was an old-time soldier, the kind of man who required those around him to prove their worth with good strategy, guts and the ability to take personal risks for the good of the military operation. Phillips had never thought much of him, until he had walked back into the SSR base with a group of four hundred men from various units and swelled the ranks and resources of the entire base of operations. That was the moment he knew that he had proven to the Colonel that he was a soldier and not a side-show piece to be given cutting comments at every opportunity. He had proven himself to be in the league that Phillips expected from soldiers.

That also allowed him a certain amount of pull in which he could demand things. Having Senator Brandt on his side and pushing hard from the American side of things didn’t hurt his case either.

When Steve was given leave to form the Howling Commandos, he already knew the specialized men that he wanted at his back. He picked them for the merits of their skills rather than the countries and ethnicities that they represented. If anything, the broad span of their skills, their ability to get along and the fact that they all came from very different places made it more appealing to form the group that he did.

Lieutenant James Montgomery “Monty” Falsworth was a good leader, a level head and a man who was shown and proven to be able to lead, follow and be handy with a gun. Monty was also excellent with tactical planning, and it might become detrimental with a group as small as theirs They all thought that the man had better give up that pathetic Sten gun too.

Sergeant Thomas “Dum Dum” Dugan was loud, loyal and a damn good soldier. The man had fought in some bad situations, but the guy had a never-say-die attitude and was able bodied and willing to crack a joke as well as quick hand with being able to learn to operate pretty much any vehicle, though had a developed a special fondness for tanks.

Private James “Jim” Morita was the wise-cracker of their room, always looking for a good joke, though he knew the man could be serious. Despite being a Japanese-American who was sometimes subjected to being side-eyed by others, Steve knew the man to be loyal to the cause and was skilled with weapons and eager to get new digs against HYDRA despite feigned reluctance to join. The man was also their elected medical officer for basic first-aid.

Private Gabriel “Gabe” Jones was a soldier who liked big guns, big bullets and was also to be their communications specialist with a known proficiency in both French and German. The man seemed as comfortable with them as with the all African-American infantry that the man had come from and seemed intent on spending plenty of time with their resident French-speaker.

Jacques “the Frenchie” Dernier was their bomb expert who could do amazing things with both HYDRA technology and even scraps that people would consider junk. The man was the reason that Bucky had lived to see the end of the days of the facility by taking a more personal hand in the death of Colonel Lohmer. Despite only speaking French, they found ways of understanding one another.

Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes was never in doubt to join the group, and his childhood friend was willing to enter any situation with anyone. Bucky would often take the role of sniper, but otherwise, his friend showed a dangerous proficiency to slipping into tight quiet spots and killing border guards, patrolmen and anyone who was associated with HYDRA. He had always known that Bucky was not a man to trifle with, but the wide range of proficiency with many weapons surprised even him, especially since many were close-quarter as well as distance ones.

Corporal Brock “Crossbones” Rumlow rounded out their group, and not a single one of them realized that the man was not supposed to be there. Bucky and Rumlow often switched off sniper duties, given that the long hours of waiting for a target could be difficult, but like everyone on the unit, Rumlow was competent, fearless and not a man he’d want to see the opposite end of a gun from.

Steve had talked to most of the men in a group and offering them the position to give or take, and he was certain that at least Dum Dum and Jim agreed because he was passing out drinks. It was a good camaraderie all around, and he even indulged in listening to the five men as they competed to outdo each other with hardy and boisterous drinking songs.

Of course that was how Peggy had found them, Steve laughing as the men somehow managed to rock in time with one another and toast at the same time. He admitted that Agent Carter looked stunning in that red dress, and it was all he could do not to jump up and immediately give her his seat. He doubted she would want to join a group of men so intent on their drinks.

He took a few nudges in the ribs from Jim on his left, and it was followed with a united effort from Dernier and Gabe to poke him on the right. Finally, he rose from his spot and gamely offered his elbow to Agent Carter, which she regarded with a sly appraising look before taking it. His Commandos cheered far more loudly than was necessary, and he didn’t fight when Peggy lead him off to the back room, which was far quieter.

If it was seen as inappropriate, he wouldn’t know the difference. He just knew from a look that she was hoping for a quiet word that had nothing to do with meeting with Howard Stark. She dropped his arm and smiled at him, and he felt a little warm under his collar from the intensity of her gaze.

“Captain, are you quite certain of your choices? Aren’t two of your team members unwell?”

Steve smiled at her, the corner of the gesture a little shy. “I’ve been assured that Corporal Rumlow and Sergeant Barnes will be ready to be deployed once we are all equipped appropriately.” He didn’t want to leave anyone with doubt of their capabilities.

Agent Carter nodded in complete acceptance of his assessment of the situation. “As I’m sure you’ve been told, your unit is very specialized, but you will also be in considerable danger. All your members must be healthy. Be safe, Captain.”

He was touched with her concern but also her faith in him. “Yes ma’am. I’ll make certain that my two other members are aware of your concern.” He paused and shifted his weight a little awkwardly. “And Peggy, thank you for everything that you’ve done.”

“Done, Captain? I don’t remember jumping out of a plane into enemy territory, single-handedly reducing a HYDRA facility to rubble and returning four hundred prisoners of war to the respective countries,” Peggy said in a way that highlighted the strength of his own character rather than acknowledging her own hand in getting him that far. That was the way she was, giving praise where it was due, utterly confident on her own contributions but not needing acknowledgement either.

“I was going to walk there, you know.”

“Yes, and what a bloody waste of three days that would have been,” Peggy said simply. “You were able to form a team of… well, skilled men is the right word, I suppose.” A hearty cheer went up from the other room. “They are displaying their skills right now, I see.”

Steve smiled and looked beyond her for the rowdy table of men who were pledging themselves to go back into the thick of things with little more than small amounts of intelligence and perhaps more chance of dying than before. Their numbers were small, and their targets were considerable. He knew neither of them faulted the men for taking this opportunity to live life and drink down any possible regrets and fear.

Thinking of once in a lifetime opportunities, he looked at Agent Carter who was admiring the liquor tolerance of his team. “Ah Agent Carter…”

“It’s Peggy off duty,” she replied simply. He didn’t mention she called him Captain.

“Peggy, yes… I well…” he stumbled when she looked at him. His tongue suddenly felt wooden in his mouth and his palms were sweaty. “Um…”

She patiently watched him, giving him time and opportunity to pull himself out of the awkward hole that she was currently watching him dig. He shifted his weight and then smoothed a hand reflexively through his hair, smoothing it to the side. She just waited, and he was left staring at her all tied up.

“Ah…”

“Steve. Just say what you want to say,” she murmured.

“When this whole war business is over, I was just wondering… curious actually… you know, you can say no…” he trailed off in the face of her sudden narrowing eyes. “Would you like to go dancing?”

“Oh, is that all?” Peggy gave him a wide smile and patted him on the arm. “I have been waiting for you to ask for a little while now, but I’m glad that I didn’t have to wait to the end of the war to allow you to muster your words.” She took pity on him when he shuffled his feet. “Of course I will go dancing with you, Captain.”

He felt a rush of elation, even if he still had no idea what was going on between Agent Carter and Howard Stark. Was this considered stealing the other man’s thunder? He figured that Peggy knew most about what she wanted, and it didn’t hurt to ask. Okay, it was a little painful on him to ask given that his previous attempts had seemed to fail so miserably with every other dame. Peggy was nothing like them he knew.

“I… that’s great. Real swell,” he said with a bright smile, which froze on his face when she leaned up and kissed his cheek affectionately.

He was back to being tongue-tied, and she clearly saw it. “Tomorrow morning, eight sharp, Captain. Mr. Stark will be going over outfitting you and your team with the latest technology.” She walked away without a single glance back, and he was left standing stunned for a few moments before he remembered that he had promised Bucky that he’d drop in.

He walked woodenly and with his head half in the clouds to the small room that had been set up for officers, a room that he had insisted that he share with James and Brock so that he could keep a closer eye on the pair. It turned out that they tended to keep a closer eye on each other than he could, given all the time that he spent with the underground SSR operations as of late and organizing his team and the assaults.

Right now, he didn’t think that he could get behind that solid oak door fast enough. He slipped into the room and shut the door as if to lock out what he had done and found both Bucky and Rumlow watching him over their hands of playing cards.

Bucky took one look at his expression and smirked. “You asked her.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Brock muttered and rummaged around to hand James a dollar bill. “About time, Rogers.”

“Wait, did you two _bet_ odds on me asking Agent Carter out?” Steve wasn’t certain if he should be incised or laugh. He decided to settle on a smile. “What were the terms?”

Bucky smiled and shuffled shoulders before laying down the hand of cards on the bed, causing Brock to groan. The two were clearly playing poker and Rumlow had lost the hand as well as the bet. Not a good night for the man, who was thankfully looking less pale and worn at the edges.

“I bet Bones a dollar you’d ask Agent Carter out before we shipped,” James said and gathered up the cards to shuffle the desk. “Bones here didn’t think you’d do it until well after we had shipped out.”

Steve gave Rumlow a hard stare. “Thanks for the faith in me,” he said without rancor.

“Hey, you get two left feet around her unless on some military jaunt,” Brock said with a small shrug. It was clear that there were no regrets to the bet.

He shrugged out of his military jacket and moved to hang it up. Out of the corner of his eye as he removed his tie, he watched Bucky deal more cards out and the pair return companionably to their game. He hung his tie and toed out of his boots and trousers to put on something more comfortable to lounge in their small shared room.

Two men who had suffered by HYDRA and neither of them seemed intent on talking about the experience. The doctors had found nothing wrong with either of them except for the generalized case of malnutrition, dehydration and sleep deprivation that almost all the men had endured. James and Brock were both considered in peak physical condition with no injuries, not even bruises or scrapes from the time on those tables in isolation. He silently wondered if they discussed it with each other when he wasn’t around, given that Bucky tended to stay sequestered when Brock decided not to venture out.

He walked over and seated himself on the second bed across the pair and folded his hands behind his head. They changed cards. He let them finish their new round, which was another win for Bucky before he smiled at the disgusted look on Rumlow’s face.

“Tomorrow I’m going to be putting in the request for our unit to be serviced with specialized weapons and uniforms,” he interjected neatly. “Do you two want anything in particular?”

“Barnes needs a pink pony,” Rumlow said.

“Rumlow needs a clue,” Bucky replied.

Steve rolled his eyes and sighed in feigned exasperation. “You both need a time out,” he said but with a fond smile. “However, neither are those are on my item requisition list. Can we be serious for a few minutes?”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Rumlow said. Bucky chuckled.

“I’m starting to regret leaving you two alone together for any length of time,” he said good-naturedly. He was glad that they had each other, and it wasn’t the first time that he regretted not being there for them. Duty required him to be present at meetings. “Okay, Bucky, let’s start with you. What do you want?”

“Wool uniform would be nice, since it’s cold out there,” Bucky said thoughtfully, setting aside the cards. “That customized M1941 Johnson I saw in the workshop? The M1911A would be nice for close work. I’ll need a replacement M3 combat knife, what with how much I dislike bayonet training.”

Steve nodded and look expectantly at Brock who was clearly considering. “Wool uniform is fine by me.” All of their uniforms would be reinforced at least. “I’m not upgrading guns either, so I’ll take a M1903A4 Springfield with Unertl scope, two M1911As if I can, a few standard issue knives, probably the M3 and V-42 stiletto.” He drank it in to request later. “And piano wire.”

Bucky gave Brock a suspicious look. “Piano wire? You gonna play us a Cadenza on the road?”

“Never know when you’re going to have to garrote someone,” Brock stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

Steve felt a shiver run down his spine, and it made him realize that both Rumlow and Bucky had faced far more active combat than he had. They were veterans like the rest of his team, and he was the one who would be going into this relatively green. The brutality of war was not lost on him at all, and he understood that there were some things that just had to be done in order to win the day and prevent the loss of lives.

“I’ll put in the request with Howard,” Steve said with a nod.

He looked between the pair on the bed and knew that they would all be entering back into war with renewed hopes on stopping HYDRA. His eyes lingered on Brock’s face, studying the lines that had been there even when they had first met. It was strange that Rumlow’s hard edge hadn’t seemed to change, and yet Bucky carried different shadows and a reservation that hadn’t been there before. He couldn’t say he understood the difference, since he considered both brave men before they had shipped out.

“Listen… I know that you two agreed to join the Howling Commandos and the SSR, but… after what you two went through, I don’t want you to feel obligated to fight.” Steve looked between them and found it was happening all around.

“Is this you talking or someone else making sure we are physically capable of doing our job?” Brock, of course, hit the nail on the head.

“Agent Carter was concerned that you two needed more time,” Steve admitted softly. “I am concerned as well, but you two know your bodies better than anyone. If you give me the word, we go.”

James was still looking between himself and Rumlow. “I go where you go, Steve. I mean, how many opportunities do I get to watch you punch the leaders of countries in their faces?”

Steve laughed. Okay, maybe he shouldn’t have started his encounter with Schmidt with a punch. There were no take backs, and he freely admitted that it had felt good.

Brock heaved a sigh and shrugged. “I’m still in. I came here to make a difference for my beliefs, and I’m going to do exactly that. Now more than ever.”

They all lapsed into a companionable silence. It seemed that they were all in this together, that maybe the seven of them would make a difference against HYDRA now that it was obvious that the group had split off from the Nazi’s directly. Steve believed that they could make a difference, especially with the entire SSR behind them.

Who could possibly even try to stop them now that they had begun to really fight back?

*****

Steve was awakened in the pitch dark of their shared room, though the reason for the disturbance was not immediately obvious. He didn’t hear the sound of air sirens or gunfire, yet he was awake listening to the sound of breathing around him. Bucky was in the other bed and Brock was on the floor between them, since they agreeably rotated between the two beds each night.

It took him a moment to realize that there was only one set of deep even breathing that would indicate someone asleep. He pinpointed it to the other bed, since it was on the same level as himself, and he suddenly turned over and sat up to check on Rumlow.

He froze at the dark outline standing next to his bed, though he couldn’t make out features or anything. He simply knew. “Brock?”

“...I’m cold.” It was a gruff soft declaration.

Steve smiled in the dark and rustled the blankets to indicate that his friend was welcome to join him, and he shifted on the bed to make room. The mattress dipped with their combined weight, but they encountered a problem that hadn’t existed before. He was no longer the skinny man from before who took up little room, but if this fact was bothersome, Rumlow didn’t acknowledge it.

Instead, his friend settled down close to him and pulled the blankets up high so that only Brock’s head was still out of them. He dared to slip an arm around the other man’s waist and relaxed in to return back to sleep. He stiffened when Brock jammed very cold feet against his own bare ones before he politely shifted to cover Rumlow’s feet with his own, rubbing them together in an attempt to help warm the cold flesh.

“What do you believe in, Steve?”

“I believe everyone deserves freedom. I believe that fascism will give way to democracy and that equality will follow in its wake ,” he murmured. “And I believe we’re going to give everyone a chance to do that. We’re going to give people peace and freedom.”

Brock shifted and slid an arm against his and clasped his wrist in what he interpreted as an affectionate way. “I believe that too.” His friend relaxed and seemed to be comfortable curled against him.

He sighed and drifted off to sleep again, but not before he heard the softly muttered words from Rumlow:

“...when it’s blue, you’ll be as good as new.”

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story about the Italian civilians stealing boots from the dead I actually read in a biography of a Canadian soldier.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read my work, and I appreciate any comments and kudos that I receive!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, another battle scene. Sorry for the long delay between my chapters.
> 
> The usual warnings for this fic apply to this chapter.

*****

If he tilted his head just right, he could almost make out the words to the soft hissing whispers that teased at the air around him. That same air stirred with blue energy, small crackles here and there that formed no particular picture and had no apparent rhyme or reason except that it was a constant presence to the long wide room that he stood in. There was nothing to see in it, so it forced his focus on the air around him.

Brock recognized that he was sleeping. Aside from the blue energy, the colours were flat, just shades of grey. There was nothing to draw him along the dream though, and he just stood where he had placed himself. The only thing that seemed to be worth his attention was that he was wearing the clothes that he had gone back in time in. It had to be a dream because the shoes didn’t bother his feet.

A door appeared to his right in a wall that hadn’t been there a moment before. He stared at it, but it was nondescript. It would take him somewhere, perhaps anywhere that he wanted to go. Where did he want to go?

Nowhere.

He was living in a past, in a war and recognized that he settled himself perfectly where he could do both the most damage and the most good. There was nothing to change about the situation. He liked to tell himself that, but the trickle of unease found him even in his dream, and his dark eyes returned to the door which had gone from flat white to a soft grey and darkening with every moment.

Rumlow was at the door without knowing if he had moved at all. The whispers that had just before felt all around now seemed to be coming from behind the door, and he swore if he opened it that he would finally know what the voices were saying. His hand grasped the handle, and when he pulled, soft blue light poured out from the other side. The moment that it touched him, his flesh disintegrated away into nothing, not even dust. Just gone.

He stared momentarily at the arm that now stopped at his elbow, but there was no pain. Dreams never had pain. The whispers were now the intensity of angry bees, but still he could make out no words. Instead, there were different tones like multiple people were talking all at once. Male voices, female voices, the squeal of a child, a snarl of rage.

He threw the door open and it was like riding the air currents, but he had no control. He was being dragged in multiple directions all at once, part of himself breaking away and coming back remade, changed but whole. His mind was unable to grasp the fullness of the situation as warmth flooded through him, dragging him along as if he had somewhere to go and something to be apart of. The voices changed, pressing their secrets at him, but they made no sense even when he thought he had picked up one stray idea or two.

Suddenly, his feet settled down on the floor, and he knew this place. The doorway to another time stood before him, flooded with blue light still. The rest of the room was as he remembered it with so many consoles, surrounding the single source where years of ambition and research had been founded. Like his previous dream, everyone was varying shades of grey outside of the Tesseract and Her energies, some of which crackled in the air if he gave some of his attention to Her for too long, a caress to his rough cheek.

He raised a hand, caressing some of the energy back, a smile crossing his features. He opened his palm and allowed the crackle to settle there, looking every bit like a miniature lightning bolt that was ever changing.

“Are you ready?”

Brock whipped around, pulling a gun he hadn’t realized that he had and pointed it up towards the observation room, but he froze at the man who stood there watching him. The Secretary looked older but in complete control as always, but the man’s eyes were disturbingly blue, too bright to be human. Pierce wore old man lines that hadn’t been there before, and he noted that the suit was different too. On the man’s lapel was a pin that he shouldn’t have been able to see clearly and yet did and knew it to be a Nazi party pin.

He looked around quickly as if expecting that all the technicians and Von Strucker himself would suddenly appear. They were alone though, which was also rather unexplained given he knew that Pierce no longer existed.

“No, I don’t,” the Secretary agreed, seeming to read his thoughts. “And yet, in you, I continue.”

Rumlow glanced at his hand as blue energy crackled along it. When he had last faced Pierce in this room, he had been furious. He hadn’t been thinking straight, just focused on his anger and using it as a buffer against the high possibility that he was going to die. He had made certain that he hadn’t considered much of the things that Pierce had told him.

“What do you want,” he growled and flicked his hand to dispel the dream energy.

“No, I think the question actually is: what do you want?” The Secretary was suddenly down beside him, hands folded neatly at the small of the man’s back. This close, Pierce looked to be closer to sixty years old. “You have questions.”

He turned his face away and looked into the empty arbor that took up the middle of the room. “I have doubts,” he replied. “I’m not sure the Red Skull has the ability to provide the freedom that I have, so far, believed to be the ultimate goal of HYDRA. People have proven how little they can make good choices… but Schmidt.”

“Quite the megalomaniac, isn’t he?” The Secretary hummed as if considering his uncertainty. “He has the ability to unite all of HYDRA; he is the face of that organization.”

Brock frowned. “He wants to rule the world to show that he can.”

“Is that all?”

Slowly, he turned his head to regard the Secretary who was observing the arbor where blue energy was gathering together. He looked at it too after a moment, saw dream-like places out of storybooks and fantasy. “Schmidt wants what’s beyond the world.”

Pierce smiled at him. “And everything in it, if he can. His ambition will not stop with Earth, but he will take HYDRA beyond the boundaries of human limitations. There may not be freedom, but there will be gross potential and growth.”

“That’s not what I signed up for,” Brock growled, clenching a fist at his side.

“And yet, you are the unwitting key to his success, though I wonder if Schmidt knows it yet,” the Secretary softly ruminated.

Brock knew without being told that it was his odd tie with the Tesseract that had generated this apparent importance. Barnes had indicated that he had disappeared and reappeared once against impossible odds, and then there was his transportation to that time and space as well. He had never been given alone time with the Tesseract to just study the mythological object.

He shook his head a little. “I can’t control whatever apparent gift I’ve been given by the Tesseract. Schmidt was interested in testing my limits and seemed disappointed.”

“Ah well, the human body can only draw in so much energy at once, like any good battery,” Pierce mused. “As for control, you’ve already proven that you have it twice. Perhaps you alone can now see that She favours you.”

It might have helped if he had bothered to think about how he had come to transport himself, the words that had been spoken to him that drove him to potentially sacrifice the very success of the project. He had been very angry, focused on proving to Von Strucker and Pierce that he could walk and do so well. It was pride, he knew, but he also considered himself a better man overall to get the job done.

When he had fallen away from Rogers, he had enjoyed their looks of horror at his self-sacrifice. They would have never made it, and so he had made the call. The taste, smell and feel of fire had sharpened his mind and forced his entire focus to locking out the very near future pain of death.

He opened his eyes and found the Secretary watching him without judgement but with clear measure. He stared right back. “You made me angry on purpose. Why else would you try to tear me down with that twisted story of yours?”

“The truth can be useful when employed in the right circumstances,” the Secretary murmured with a pride that no doubt matched his own. “You needed the push, and I was willing to bet that you’d take all that repressed hate and focus it forward.”

“Focus,” he said suddenly, waving away the rest of Pierce’s words with a hand. “That’s what the Tesseract requires, isn’t it?”

“Partly.”

Brock focused on the images of strange words, strange technology and more often than not stars and nebulas and space phenomenon that he didn’t even know the name of. He rubbed his jaw with a hand, contemplating.

It came to him in a moment, and he looked hard at Pierce next to him. The Secretary’s teasing smile indicated that his epiphany was not lost on the man. “Emotion.”

“I’d give you a prize, but alas, I don’t control the dream,” the Secretary said with a smirk. “But yes, emotion and focus. I made you angry enough that nothing would deter you, not even when the Tesseract began to pull you apart one cell at a time. It was your state of rage at me and your focus at proving Wolfgang wrong that saved you. Your sense of self was too strong, backed by your emotions and drive to succeed. You are, by far, the most driven man I know.”

Rumlow looked at his hands, rough with callouses and dirt from his travels, though he suspected if he wanted them clean, they might appear that way. “How did you know it would succeed?”

“Oh that was just a guess, an educated one based on what I’d read about the Tesseract and how its energy had been employed in the Second World War,” Pierce said with a shrug. “And if you were to die, I was certain you’d make a show of it.”

He snorted softly and ran his fingers through his hair before he walked forward to the arbor that was still focusing on the wide universe beyond their little planet. He pressed a hand into the disk and closed his eyes, focusing his thoughts and pressing his will against it. The image changed to something closer to home, and he gritted his teeth as he confirmed a story he had previously been unwilling to face. Ugh, that’s gross. He now wished that he could unsee that.

The Secretary was examining fingernails when he turned away from the arbor again. “This is a dream.”

“Yes, but for you… it’s curious how dreams and reality can start to mix,” Pierce said. “Don’t forget the key, Rumlow.”

“Rogers,” he murmured.

“Rogers,” his father confirmed gravely to him. Then Pierce drove a knife into his gut. “Time it, Brock.”

Brock jerked awake in shock, though the blow certainly hadn’t hurt him at all. He blinked his eyes in the darkness before the warm body sleeping behind his shifted and gathered him in again, strong arms flexing and then relaxing around his chest. He yawned and then set his head back down on the pathetic excuse of a pillow and settled down again with Rogers’ breath stirring the hairs at the top of his head.

This was going to be one of the last times for any manner of comfort. Tomorrow they shipped out, and winter was starting its stranglehold. It was a good thing Barnes seemed immune to it, since it meant that Steve was just as content to settle in with him for a little extra warmth.

It was time for the tight-rope walk of straddling two lines, both of whom could kill him if his actions weren’t perfectly placed. Then there was the fact that they would be in an active war zone to add to the chances of dying horribly. There was nothing quite like a thrill of living so close to the edge and only his wits keeping him alive.

*****

**Nauders, Austria - December 1943**   


“So HYDRA isn’t all Jerries, huh,” Jim Morita said as the specialized unit made the slow approach to the far too quiet brick warehouse on the outskirts of town.. “That’s inconvenient, you know.”

“No more inconvenient than knocking door-to-door looking for them,” Tim Dugan replied. “We’ve been lucky so far to not have to deal with a whole contingent of Krauts. Wehrmacht was bad enough, SS was a twisted pleasure, and now HYDRA feels like a we’re walking on nails.”

“You ever actually walked on nails before, Dum Dum,” Gabe Jones asked from behind the main group.

“All the time at the HYDRA holiday craft camp,” Dugan replied with a smirk at all the others who had also served their time in Austria.

“The Hun version of the Boy Scouts,” Falsworth added from the far right of the group.

Rumlow followed slightly behind the rest of the group, his eyes and rifle moving in search of signs of enemy position in the windows. This kind of banter was usual for the group, and they were relatively tame compared to some of the units that fought together, but no one denied the brotherhood that always followed men into active combat.

So far, it had been pretty dull going, mostly because they were in transit to get to the first rumoured storehouse of HYDRA machinery and weapons. It was close enough to allied held territory that the risk was relatively acceptable to the Commandos and gave Rogers a chance to see more active combat in the command position. From dancing war-bonds seller to a captaincy was not the easiest way to go, but as long as they were taking out HYDRA, it seemed to be a good opportunity.

They had looped around the city of Nauders, a polite little place of brick buildings, scared folk and a rumoured division of HYDRA. It was suspected to be the housing of many of the parts manufactured in the work camp that Steve had rescued them from. While the main road leading into Nauders was empty of apparent mines, it was well-used with deep ruts in the mud, an indication that heavy truck traffic had been present.

Both he and Barnes had confirmed through their scopes that no obvious sniper was to be seen in any of the windows, but everyone knew that a sniper’s second best skill was camouflage. Rogers was up front of their arrow formation, Barnes and Falsworth to the right and Dugan and Morita to the left of their Captain. He, Dernier and Jones were strung out at the back to prevent getting pinned down by any soldiers who might swam around from the sides once they penetrated the building.

The wooden doors were weakly chained shut, just enough to keep them from blowing open in a strong wind. All it took was a strong kick from Steve’s foot to blast the doors open, and the dim interior was revealed with six HYDRA agents leaning over a table in the middle of the first room. The front row opened fire without hesitation, the simultaneous shout of multiple guns drowning out any alarm calls from the officers caught in the line of fire.

Steve was their vanguard who slipped from using a M1911 sidearm to pulling out that newly painted ‘vibranium’ shield, which a few of them had doubts about in live combat. However, all doubts were left behind in the face of the swarm of HYDRA agents that came from all different storage rooms, and there was nothing to do but fight.

He left the main part of the fighting and slipped off to the right to investigate a side room while Jones took a similar room to the left of their entry point. Gabe’s Browning soon added to the cacophony of gunfire.He slipped inside to sweep for enemies, but he found it empty and full of HYDRA equipment. He still walked the line of the room to peer out the window, but no one had decided to try to run for it and warn the rest of the town.

Rumlow turned abruptly as a heavily injured HYDRA officer stumbled into the room, and he smirked as the man froze, helmet having been ripped away in whatever struggle had previously been engaged it. The blond carried a Tesseract-enhanced P08, but judging from the blood that darkened wet patches in the previously pristine uniform, the fight was over before it would begin.

His smirk broadened when the officer cursed in German and fired at him, and the wide hallway could have allowed him to jump out of the way. He stepped forward instead, rolling into the blue energy and feeling it smash with bruising force against his chest. The energy screamed and crawled over his uniform and skin, crackling like playful lightning along his limbs as he lifted his Springfield towards his shoulder.

The energy crow called near his ear as he watched the shock fade to resignation on the Kraut’s young face, the kid no older than him. Yet, the energy plucked at his ears and hair. _Time it, Brock,_ whispered across his consciousness.

Now was not the time to consider alternative battle plans, but he dropped his rifle and fired a single shot into the thigh of the HYDRA officer, but the kid had a stiff spine and leveled enhanced luger at him despite being debilitated. The next shot forced him to drop his Springfield to ride at his side to avoid damaging it, and he immediately dropped a hand back to flick the safety back on.

How long would it take him to normally cross the distance? He judged it to be about seven paces, four if he was running. He’d say two and a half seconds, three if he wanted to really max his range.

So, he wanted to _there_ and he happened to be _here_. The Luger fired again, and his quarry began to crawl towards him, clearly not understanding that his inaction had nothing to do with cowardice. He drew in a deep breath and focused even as a bullet tore through the wall next to him, splintering a wooden shelf.

_When it’s white, prepare to be blight._  
When it’s red, you’ll wish you were dead.  
When it’s green, it’s safe to preen.  
When it’s blue, you’ll be as good as new. 

He drew in a deep breath and held it, concentrating on the fact he no longer wanted to be where he was standing. There was the shuffle of material against the cement floor, and on his exhale, he felt a strange ripple in the air around him. A moment later, he was overwhelmed with nausea and opened his eyes in time to look for a spot to empty the contents of his stomach. It turned out to be a weapons’ crate.

However, he was where he had wanted to be. He had exchanged spots and there was no evidence that he had even been on the other side of the small room. His victory was short lived as the relatively loud sound of a body impacting the wall to his left indicated that the team was no doubt cleaning up, and he had been missing for longer than he should have.

He pulled his M1911 sidearm from his belt and put a bullet into the HYDRA officer’s shocked face. He would have liked to practice more, but now was not the time. He slipped his sidearm away and took up his Springfield, abandoning the now cooling corpse to return to the main room of the storage facility.

Captain America punched a HYDRA officer struggling the rise with that impressive vibranium shield and Rumlow spattered the shield with blood and brains a moment later. Steve looked at him in askance.

“I was feeling left out,” he remarked with a smirk.

“Where were you,” Steve asked as various calls of ‘clear’ were heard from around the tightly packed facility.

Brock shrugged his shoulders. “I had to take a leak.”

There was little else to say on the matter as Dernier was off sneaking into each room with some high density explosives that probably came from scraps and some HYDRA grenades. Either way, their mission was to make an impression on HYDRA that their facilities were no longer safe and would be targets of Captain America. It was also warning to the Jerry army that might not associate heavily with HYDRA anymore but might defend the old tradition anyway.

Jones, Dugan and Barnes had come down from finishing their sweeps and were reloading their various weapons. Falsworth was the last to return and gave Cap the final all clear. There was also apparently nothing small enough worth salvaging, and Dernier was going to bring the house down on top of what might be used in other bunkers that might be hidden in the foothills.

Beyond the walls of their brick building, the Sherman and Churchill tanks could be heard firing their main turrets from the hilltop. Their reinforcements had arrived and were taking aim at Nauders, and soon enough, there would be a swarm of combined British and American might brought down about the town in Austria.

He stepped to the side as two field Lieutenants appeared in the doorway and surveyed the downed HYDRA officers. “Prepare for incoming.”

He leveled his Springfield and removed the safety as the frail wooden doors at the other end of the facility were blasted off their hinges by the counter-assault from the HYDRA battalion located within Nauders. His first bullet tore through the throat of the leading officer as the rest of the Commandos open fired as well.

Dernier appeared from the side room that Jones had cleared upon their first entry and gave a signal to Falsworth. Their second in command called for an immediate retreat and they all began backing out of the building. When Dernier waved hands in a clear ‘hurry’ motion, they all turned tail and ran from the building with the covering fire of the military officers beyond it all. Some of the tanks had already torn up the road, forcing them to scramble through the mud, which wasn’t helpful in a clear retreat that must have looked rather cowardly to the advancing HYDRA contingent.

Then the brick building blew like a volcano, the metal roof blowing clean off and the bricks exploding outwards from the sheer force of the detonation. The top level was quickly absorbed in flaming collapse by the bottom, and there weren’t any HYDRA officer screams to encourage the usual callous sadistic call of ‘let them burn’. Anyone inside was clearly dead.

“Muster up, fellas,” Steve suddenly called, waving them onwards to join the green-clad platoons swarming into Nauders to secure the buildings.

They all moved in and stepped into the nearby ditch, heads together and out of the way of the heavy howitzer artillery that was being moved down the road into range of the buildings. Their teams of personnel swarmed over the units like ants, securing here and loading their angled turrets. Once they started their assault, it was going to be piss-poor hearing for all.

“Seems like a pleasant day for a bonfire,” Falsworth put in. “Are you certain your Colonel Phillips sent enough firepower?”

“No birds in the sky, so he must be going light,” Dugan said with a feigned sad sigh.

“I hope you all are wearing clean underwear because you never know when you’re going to get hit with a one-oh-five millimeter round. Hate to be sent home with dirty underwear,” Morita said while chewing on a sprig of grass.

Rumlow rolled his eyes. “You get hit with a one-oh-five, there won’t be enough of you to find your underwear at all.”

“And if they do find scraps of it, it’s going to be mighty dirty anyway,” Barnes added with a smirk.

As if to emphasize this point, the first M2A1 howitzer barked with a resounding _boom_ and spewed smoke and fire from the barrel. A building at the eastern edge of Nauders exploded and collapsed. They were all left with ringing ears and watched the artillery team moved like a well-working machine to reload.

“Alright, we’re going to follow the Rangers into the West side of the city,” Steve said, using the ‘command’ voice that had all of their attention. “Artillery is going to slam the East and drive any HYDRA to the North or the West or pin down those in that area. The tank division is set to hold the line in the North and East roads, and they can be called in if we take too much heat. Once the artillery barrage has gone for twenty minutes, the British are sweeping in on the East. We are to go building to building and capture or kill any HYDRA officers.”

Morita made a face. “Urban combat is going to bleed us, Cap.”

“I know,” Steve acknowledged simply and then immediately moved on. “Dernier, Jones and Dugan, you’re to find hostiles but to pocket any HYDRA technology small enough to move. We’re suspecting new grenades and the like; find them.”

There was a pause to allow Gabe Jones to make the full and clear translation for Jacques Dernier, who nodded in turn and gave the thumbs up. He glanced at Barnes crouched next to him, catching the other sniper’s eye and willing to bet they would be paired to go to high ground. That left Falsworth, Morita and Rogers to flush the rabbits from their holes, by far one of the more dangerous aspects of the mission.

Steve turned to Barnes next. “You and Rumlow are teamed, one spotter, one sniper. You decide between the two of you which is which. I want you two up on top of that church taking out stragglers and calling unit movements if you can.” They both nodded their understanding.

They immediately began to play rock-paper-scissors to decide who you take the key sniper position and who would be relegated to spotter and communications. He won; Barnes called him a greasy Eyetie and flipped him the bird.

He shuffled his gear to take more ammunition from Barnes as his partner was fitted with a heavy radio that basically just made the other sniper a target. It was smaller than the standard communications, but that was only because Stark had been tinkering with them. This was actually a big test of their capabilities in active combat.

The howitzers began their booming serenade on the East side of Nauders, leveling buildings and scattering anything that might be considered opposition. Now that they were set up and ready, their beat was falling into a near constant _boom-boom-boom._

“Falsworth, Morita, and I are door knocking,” the Captain said when there was a brief break in the resounding noise. “Once you’ve cleared the buildings with the help of the Rangers, rendezvous at the church.”

Everyone nodded. The howitzers boomed. Buildings collapsed. In the brief silence, there was the almost gentle _rat-tat-tat_ of various rifles amid buildings in the East. More booms from the artillery. Dust flew like clouds or maybe fire smoke. Someone coughed.

Captain America took the lead, and the rest of them fell in line, automatically shuffling between themselves so the assigned break to their unit could happen without scrambling. They ducked low and headed into Nauders, slipping into an alleyway first and then the first group of Dugan, Jones and Dernier slipped out and began their run, calling out to a company of Rangers and falling in with them.

This area of town had been pressed by the Rangers once, but one never knew when an enemy was lurking in some dug-out no one could see. The rest of them moved to the other end of the alley and began trotting up the street, but all was quiet of enemy fire. They stepped over enemy and ally bodies alike, Morita almost slipping in a pool of blood on the cobblestone streets when they all legged it across the open area to the next set of buildings.

With a nod, he and Barnes kept running until they met up with a company of the Rangers that were heading towards the church, both sides yelling “Turkey” or “Lava” at one another. It was times like these that he thought it damn lucky they weren’t just shot on the spot yelling ridiculous words at each other. The sound of active combat was closer, and there was dust where grenades had been thrown into building windows and doors up ahead of their current position.

They pressed against the one building and the lead soldier peered around into the alley way. Apparently it was good because the rest were all waved forward. That happened for the next two breaks in buildings before they all pulled to a stop as five German privates rushed down the streets followed by two HYDRA officers.

Rumlow wasn’t the first to shoot the HYDRA officers, but his was clearly the most accurate as the goggles shattered over the right eye and blood sprayed out the back. The five privates immediately threw up their hands with yells of “Kamarade! Kamarade!” Too bad they hadn’t just opened up on all of them.

The prisoners were immediately shuffled out of town to be interrogated and sent south to a prison camp. That was becoming more and more common. The Wehrmacht, while difficult to deal with, would most often surrender once officers were killed. HYDRA never surrendered, never even showed inclination to do less than fight to the last man. The SS was much the same as HYDRA when it came to fighting to the last man, but their group wasn’t hunting the SS Nazis.

Another two blocks lead to him and Barnes splitting off to leg it to the church which had been captured by the allies already. Even as they approached, the structure had taken a beating and one entire wall looked like it might collapse at any moment. It was still the highest point in town, and that made it an important conquest. It was also very dangerous if the enemy had available tanks and artillery.

Since he was the one more armed, he entered first into anything to take most of the risk. He encountered a team of American officers conferring with a few British. The main bulk of support was beyond in the hills, only to be called on if necessary. With only a nod, Rumlow moved passed a few resting soldiers and headed for the bell tower.

“Mind the steps. There’s glass up there,” one British officer said between puffing on a cigarette.

“Anything else,” Barnes asked.

“Some blood and a nice view,” the officer replied blandly.

Rumlow glanced at his partner for this mission and nodded, preparing to head up the stairs. He only got about three up before he had to pause again.

“You guys are it, huh? Captain America’s hand-picked company?” It was a young man with a dirt smeared face. It was obviously a reservist. “I hear you guys can shoot any Nazi in the eye from five hundred yards away.”

Barnes laughed. “Don’t be a shit,” the other sniper said in reply. “Rumlow here can hit one at seven hundred, and me, being the better sniper and soldier, can hit one at eight hundred and fifty yards.”

Rumlow huffed noisily. “Come on, Serge, let’s not be modest here. You’re doing all that with your pants down taking a piss at the same time.”

Everyone roared with laughter who had heard.

They both smirked and headed up the stairs towards the bell-tower. The place was square, several landings giving those either foolish enough or under some kind of punishment a small reprieve from climbing the narrow staircase. It would be much easier if he could just go to the top and make Barnes walk it.

That was an idea actually. He probably could see himself down the stairs, so if he just moved himself up there, it would be convenient and allow him to set up faster. It would also be an interested test on what he could do. What was the worst that could happen?

He picked up his pace, ignoring Barnes just plodding along under the heavier communication pack. He walked faster and then began to take the steps two at a time, aware he was getting close. It was now or never. He set himself and began to run from the latest landing up towards the next one, focusing on what the top of the tower probably looked like. He hadn’t seen it, but didn’t they all look the same?

A big bell. White stone floor and walls with arched stone to allow the sound to go out to the city beyond and be funneled down the stairs to the church itself.

_When it’s white, prepare to be blight.  
When it’s red, you’ll wish you were dead…_

Power gathered around him, and he momentarily closed his eyes to set the image in his mind.

Rumlow impacted hard on the stone wall, practically ramming his face and chest into it and bouncing off. He hit the wooden landing with a loud sound that must have resounded alarmingly because Barnes was suddenly charging up if the fast stomping was any indication. He lay stunned for a moment before convincing himself to roll onto his knees and pick his body and pride up from the floor.

“Bones, you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he called down, rubbing his nose as he pushed himself to his feet. His nose was bleeding something fierce, forcing him to wipe it on his jacket sleeve for a lack of anything else handy.

Barnes appeared on the stairs below him and peered up at him. “Did you… run into the wall?”

“No,” he said with a perfect face for lying.

“How come your nose is bleeding,” the other sniper asked slyly. “Did the wall run into you?”

He wiped at his bloody nose, which really only served to make it worse than better. “I slipped in blood.”

“Your own?”

Rumlow rolled his eyes and shuffled his kit-pack comfortably and to avoid wiping at his nose some more. “There’s totally blood on these stairs that’s not mine.” He scuffed his boot against the wood as if smearing blood which was not actually there.

Barnes had arrived two stairs below his current position and peered between his nose and the stairs, clucking like a hen on purpose. That smirk was nothing but trouble, and he could see why the guy was so well liked. It was just too bad the Winter Soldier had been ground down to lose this; alas, that was the way of making a weapon.

“Need me to call you a medic?”

“Need me to kick your teeth in, jackass?”

Barnes snickered. “Touchy, Mr. Killjoy.”

Rumlow huffed and stomped noisily up the stairs the rest of the way to the bell tower, chased by Bucky’s laughter the entire way. So, he couldn’t take himself to a place he hadn’t seen, was it? It was better to know that now then to experience it in a situation where he was actually witnessed failing. Already, he knew he wasn’t going to live this down.

He spent the rest of the mission ignoring Barnes who took every opportunity to ask about his nose and sniffing as if clearing the man’s own personal airways. His only revenge was not even his when they realized the communication device cut out half way through their watch, sparks flickering around the dials and then a grand puff of black smoke emerging. It smelled like something had died in there. Real Stark ingenuity right there.

Instead, Barnes took up sniper duty with him, and they challenged one another to the most difficult shots that they could find. Like most sniping, it was a lot of laying on one’s belly peering down a scope, adjusting for wind and distance, zeroing again and, for them, double checking their targets that peeped out of windows. Usually it was an allied soldier checking nearby windows, but occasionally, a Kraut or HYDRA soldier slipped out, only to not live long enough to regret the decision.

_Tat._

“What do you think of Agent Carter?”

Barnes was shifting to scope down a different area of the city where the howitzers had practically blasted apart. “Feisty dame, nice ass. You?”

Rumlow had to blink several times because he had developed a headache from a combination of smacking into the wall with his face and peering down the scope too long. “Nice legs on that one, but I’ve got a bet she’ll tear our heads off and shit down our throats before ever getting close.”

“Got her eye on Steve anyway,” Barnes replied.

“I didn’t mean ‘get close’ like that,” he replied with an exasperated sigh. “I mean, she’s all stiff upper lip, straight spined. Keeps herself apart.”

_Tat. Tat._ Bucky huffed softly, reloading. “She’s British, and she’s stuck with a bunch of sexist men. What do you expect?”

He shrugged and fired off a shot, taking out a glass bottle and sending what had probably been a resident scurrying away. “She sure has a steady hand on her. Phillips should put her in combat.”

“Women are forbidden from active combat.”

“That’s because male egos can’t take it,” Rumlow growled, having to take a break because his face hurt. “Seriously Barnes, we shouldn’t judge people on what they look like and shit, just what they can do.”

“Hear, hear,” Barnes said agreeably.

Eventually it was time to regroup and let the artillery and tanks take down the rest of Nauders, leaving behind nothing but a smoldering pile of bricks. By the time the Commandos settled down for the night, everyone knew he had hit a wall, literally. He had a nice pair of shiners which earned him almost constant teasing for the next few days, but like so many lessons in life, they were earned with pain. He now knew better his own new limitations.

“Hey ‘Coon, your watch,” Dugan said in nudging him awake. “Since you got your war paint on, they won’t see your face in the night.”

“Real funny, Dummy,” he replied with a growl and crawled out of the slit trench he had been sleeping in. Dugan replaced him, since it was a trench known to be safe.

*****

**Austrian Alps HYDRA base - December 1943**   


There had been many pictures of the main HYDRA base in the Alps, the interior, the hanger, the corridors. It had been carefully catalogued because of how huge of an achievement it was to take the base in the first place. The SSR couldn’t help but be proud and wanted to immortalize their efforts with still black and white photos of the event before the war had ended and their efforts turned to clean up and then SHIELD was formed soon after.

Before he had come back in time, Rumlow, like the rest of the candidates, had studied everything that they could about HYDRA, the military and the bases that had been recorded. Words often didn’t lead much for the imagination, but there were enough photos that he had studied well and long to know what parts of the interior of the Alps base looked like, particularly Schmidt’s large personal area. The view was apparently spectacular.

However, he had learned his lesson after the stairwell in the Nauders church, and he had decided to wait until they were back in London after successful campaigning in driving from Italy into part of France still under German occupation. It was enough to give Steve more battle experience and settle in the fact the guy was now responsible for all of their lives with decisions made.

They were given a few days leave after debriefings, and he now knew where they would be attacking. As far as Phillips was concerned, MI6 hadn’t found anything related to the main HYDRA base, and while he could do little about it, he planned on making it clear that there were many eyes looking for it. With the Germans getting the Allied push, it was going to be HYDRA that needed to shove back as far as he could tell. Too bad so little information trickled down to Corporals.

Rumlow had been practicing his ability more and more in little ways, increasing in distance and time. He was also getting faster at gathering the necessary energy. It helped that almost all of the HYDRA soldiers that they had faced used the Tesseract-enhanced weaponry. The Commandos knew he was the only one immune to their sting, and he didn’t mind making the first run to attract the attention of the weapons and the often arrogant officers who wielded them.

They had been pretty shocked when he had charged down their trench armed with nothing more than a knife and his sidearm. That had been a night-op where he was on his own while the rest of the Commandos had laid the signs of activity to attract artillery attention away from advancing American troops badly hit a few nights before. It had still been a pleasure to take all sixteen members at close range, since most HYDRA soldiers didn’t carry normal lugers anymore.

Rogers had slept painfully close to him that night upon his return. He knew that it had not been an easy order for Steve to give, but their Captain had learned early that as long as the decision was sound, they would go. He would go and suffer the bruising that came with taking those enhanced bolts of energy and voice not a single complaint about it.

Sometimes Steve’s fingers would gently caress circles around those bruises visible on his arms in the fire light. Sometimes he felt the ghost of lips brush across them when he was supposed to be sleeping. Sometimes he would shift into the touch, and they would both still in indecision a moment afterwards, the tension palpable.

It was those thoughts which he carried forward as he stepped from one location in the deep of night in Piccadilly Square to the strategic study and command room of the Red Skull miles away. It was the greatest distance that he had ever traveled in one go,and it was based only on pictures. Considering he didn’t hit a wall or end up in the waterways, he now knew another basis of his power.

He shivered and shook out the prickling energy up his skin, looking around the room. It was very early in the morning, but he often wondered if the Skull actually slept.

The large open room was quiet, the light from the large windows to his left showing that it was still dark outside, though the snow on the peaks beyond was obvious. The desk where the Skull probably spent a lot of time was stacked neatly with paper but by no means cluttered. The map table was the same, smooth and with many pins pertaining to different targets and objectives. He ignored the almost joyous welcome from straight ahead of him, the call almost too much to ignore, but he set his teeth and walked to the map table instead.

The Tesseract sung in his blood regardless of his refusal. Like a lover tittering in amusement. Like a mother welcoming a child home from a long day at school.

Brock stepped over to the large table and set his hands to it, sighting the Eastern Seaboard with various pins set neatly into various major cities. There was the Western half of Europe as well, and he noted that the most major cities had a target painted on them in the form of a pin jammed through the thick paper. There were the HYDRA facilities as well, the heads of their pins a different colour, and he noted that Nauders had been removed.

He reached out and ran his thumb over the subtle rise of the edges of paper. The pin had been removed with a quick, no doubt, angry jerk. The corner of his lips rose in amusement.

He suddenly turned his head when the door to the room sounded with a soft thump into its frame, and he found himself staring at none other than Arnim Zola, though the scientist was dressed far more casually without a tie or jacket. They eyed each other for a long moment.

Zola seemed to recognize the importance of his appearance and returned to the door to lean out. He surmised that the guard outside was being given the ‘honour’ of the task of waking Schmidt up to come and join them here in this room. It was not a duty he would envy on anyone.

Rumlow had never been alone in the room with Zola before, though he had once been in the room with the ‘brain’ of the man. He suspected that Arnim was as curious of him as he was of the little Swiss scientist. This was the man who had built the HYDRA that he knew after all, and that required certain amount of respect.

His eyes tracked Zola over to where he knew the Tesseract was humming temptingly. Arnim was pretending not to glance over at him by the map table. “Tell me, Corporal, how are your abilities working?”

Brock shrugged his shoulders. “They suit my needs, but I’m still learning their limitations.”

“Are there limitations to an unrefined energy,” Arnim asked, beady eyes peering through the thick lens. “No matter, you are here, which means you are not limited. Do you suffer from pains when you move yourself?”

He raised an eyebrow at the curious interrogation. Clearly nothing stopped scientific interest in delving further into the mysteries of the universe. “No, the only pain I suffer is from the weapons you make when they impact against me before I kill your men.”

Arnim waved a hand as if such a detail was unimportant. “They understand that their sacrifice helps to ensure our future. No one man is so important to HYDRA that the ideal stops upon his death.” Then, perhaps realizing how that sounded, the little Swiss glanced towards the door. “However, Schmidt is our most influential leader. He has proven that the impossible is now possible.”

Brock exhaled, and he moved himself with a snap of blue energy from the map table to sitting on the console next to the table that confined the Tesseract. That put him right next to Zola, who peered at him with barely contained excitement. It was no doubt the first time the little man had seen the kind of transportation he could do to himself, and a part of him was flattered by the attention of a man who had proven over and over again to be loyal to the cause and not a single man.

“Did Schmidt believe once as you believe? Does he believe that HYDRA is beyond one man?”

Arnim stared at him for a long moment. “I don’t know. When I met Johann, he was already on the slide to fanatical on a few subjects. He believed that mankind had not found its potential, and HYDRA would allow him to explore it. He is brilliant. His ideas… inspire me. His drive for success motivates me.”

Brock rested his hands on the edge of the table as the Tesseract sparked and cooed at him. “In my time, it was you who provided HYDRA with the basis of growth and potential. It was never about the growth of mankind but the ideal. Freedom is a lie, and in order to actually be free, the illusion had to be removed.”

This was a dangerous topic of conversation for them both. They could be labelled as traitors and killed.

“HYDRA’s growth doesn’t stop at this planet, Schmidt believes,” Zola whispered softly. “With the path of the super-soldier clear and the Tesseract showing him things beyond our world, his plans are becoming grander. _You_ showed him that there were things beyond us.”

“And now he wants to bring HYDRA’s peace to the cosmos,” he replied softly. He sighed and glanced at the Tesseract. “We don’t know what’s out there.”

Arnim gave him small smile, like those found on snakes. It suited the man. “That is not an excuse not to try.”

Brock kicked his legs in what he knew would look like a childish gesture. He mulled that over while Zola busied with controls and dials next to him, clearly setting up for some early morning testing. “This war has to end fast or we’ll lose the potential as worthy men die in the trenches. We can’t take the cosmos without a huge military might.”

“The Allies have their Captain. The Axis has Hitler. HYDRA has the Skull and… you,” Arnim said in a soft sippering voice. “Added together, HYDRA has more than either faction. When your mission is completed, we will have the other two as well.”

He nodded his head in agreement. “And the base material of another super-soldier.”

Arnim paused and glanced at him. “He thrives?”

“As expected. As I promised you he would,” he remarked with a smirk. “He’s changing.”

“How?”

Brock shrugged his shoulders, teasing Zola with the potential of details. He could see that the man was practically about the twitch and Arnim’s face scrunched with frustration when he only smiled.

“Little things,” he said, still teasing. It was clear he had Zola hook, line and sinker. “He’s eating less but obviously gaining muscle mass. He doesn’t put on coats or shiver even while the rest of us are freezing. I don’t think drink…”

“Corporal Rumlow,” Schmidt suddenly said. “I assume there are no complications to your mission?”

He was probably the only one to catch the sour look that Zola’s face took on before it smoothed to curious objectivity. He stopped the motions of his legs and allowed them to hang down from the table ledge he was sitting on, turning his head to regard Johann Schmidt for a single second to ascertain the man’s mood before he was hopping off the ledge.

He saluted military style and not that of HYDRA, which drew the Red Skull’s eyes to him. Those red brows drew down in disapproval, but he held the salute for what was considered respectful, since he knew that Schmidt would not tell him to shift to parade rest. He did anyway, holding one wrist in his other hand.

“No complications, sir,” he reported simply, staring straight ahead as Schmidt stalked closer and walked around him as if looking for signs he had left part of himself elsewhere. “I’m part of the SSR Howling Commandos, we took the town of Nauders without much resistance, and we’ve been withdrawn to London, England for our next mission.”

Schmidt came to stand in front of him, but he could hear Zola still behind him fiddling with dials. “We lost considerable materials with the loss of Nauders.”

“I’m not in a position to warn your troops that Captain America is driving us hard to meet up with the Allies,” he said simply, though he could have possibly risked it while his tent mate was on patrol. He wasn’t comfortable enough with timing it to be exact from within a tent where he couldn’t see the position of the moon to the stars. “Nauders was considered a success by the SSR. The team works well…”

“You are aware of your allegiance, are you not,” Johann cut in coldly.

Brock stiffened his shoulders. “Better than you give me credit for, _sir_.”

Schmidt waved off his comment with a hand and gave him a measured look before purposefully moving behind him. “I don’t trust easily, Corporal, least of all a man who is entirely out of my reach should he choose to turn on me.”

“I serve HYDRA,” he gritted out. He didn’t turn around. “I will deliver on what we discussed.”

“Will you?” It wasn’t the first time someone had been actively skeptical of him. “And you will deliver Captain America into my hands?”

“As promised, sir,” Brock said coldly. “And as planned.”

Whatever there was in his voice seemed to momentarily placate the Red Skull’s suspicion of him. He felt the Tesseract stirring again, and he knew the machine was active behind him. The tittering laugh of the Jewel of Odin caressed his ears, tempting him to turn and look, but he had purposefully kept from direct contact with the Tesseract since coming back in time.

He held his parade rest even as switches were flicked and the soft hum of the Tesseract increased to an audible whine, begging for freedom, pleading for a chance to be active and show them all the pretty things beyond their reach. A promise that if he drew close, She would dazzle him with the mysteries of the universe.

A dangerous proposition.

“Turn around,” Schmidt said casually and with an air of distraction.

Rumlow about-faced and ignored how Zola watched him from the opposite side of the machinery that held the Tesseract. His eyes followed the motions of Johann Schmidt’s hands as the man reached up and grabbed the handle found at the top of the energy focusing ray. The Red Skull’s hand twisted and then drew the encased Tesseract from the device. It was set on the table between them.

His blood stirred in his veins, warming him and causing all the hair on his skin to rise. He breathed a deep breath as his eyes remained focused on the glowing blue cube which called to every fiber of his being. There was a tug in his flesh to just reach out, to set bare skin to the containment glass, to show them _all_ the wonders...

“...his eyes glow…”

“...the saturation level has not depleted, Doctor…”

“...it is as you said. He _is_ an energy…”

Brock snapped out of his focus on the Tesseract to find both Zola and Schmidt watching him. He blinked twice and then resumed his parade rest. He ignored the fact that he had sidled a subtle step closer to the cooing Jewel.

“She calls to you, does She not?” Zola was giving him a slim knowing smile. “Curious things might occur if you should touch Her.”

“Curious indeed, Doctor,” Schmidt agreed with a silky voice. “But not today. It is enough to know that She can draw you back, which assures me of your loyalty.”

Rumlow glanced at the Tesseract which gave off a flare of energy, Her version of a teasing giggle like apology. He swallowed hard, aware that because they were tied, it was possible - improbable but possible - for the Red Skull to pull him to the Tesseract. He suddenly wondered if that was the Tesseract’s entire intentions, if it was sentient at all. It wasn’t he knew, but the bonds between cold solidified energy and human energy had been crossed by him.

“I understand,” he finally gritted out in the face of the expectant looks.

“Good, now I want your full report,” Schmidt said, no doubt purposefully stroking the glass enclosure that held the Tesseract.

He did, reporting all that had come to pass and specifically future assaults and where they were going next according to the SSR. He wasn’t interrupted and only a few glances passed between the Red Skull and Zola. Only once he was finished did Schmidt seem to seriously consider the information and asked him pointed questions, some of which he had no information on because that was for Captain Rogers to debrief them on once the assault began. Movements of troops were also something he was not able to provide information about.

He was interrogated for almost an hour by Schmidt mostly, though Zola seemed intent on watching him and only added a few questions. He answered what he could and had no shame in what he couldn’t. His rank was low enough where few details filtered down to him for the moment. It also made him perfectly placed to slip between the cracks.

Finally, Schmidt seemed satisfied. “Very well, continue with your mission as planned. Your next target will be allowed to stand, but after that, I will waste no more resources on making a point.”

Rumlow nodded his head. He had a lot of work to do. “Yes sir. I’ll have Rogers bagged and tagged for you as quickly as possible. He trusts me.”

“You’re certain?”

He was definitely certain about that, given the last few times camping out and sharing a tent more and more often as people settled into set pairs. Jones and Dernier because of language. Dum Dum and Morita weren’t so attached, but they tended to just gravitate to making bad jokes to each other and thus slept close by. Barnes and Monty had few preferences, and he swore that Bucky was encouraging him sleeping near Steve. He suspected that the fondness that Rogers had for him was both misplaced and genuine sweetness for him in the absence of Agent Carter.

He was hesitant to detail their relationship though. “He’s left me no reason to doubt that he considers me an ally and a friend.”

The Red Skull watched him for a long moment, as if searching for new details that might be seen on his expression. “Very good, the new world order will not be completed without him now that Erskine is dead. He is the key.”

Didn’t he just know it? Pierce harped on that a lot. “I’m aware of that, and I’ll have my part of the mission completed before the snow melts.”

“I want reports more often than you have been giving on your progress,” Schmidt added almost as an aside.

Rumlow could and would make no promises on that either. Active combat, watches and being around the Howling Commandos all the time made it difficult to slip away legitimately. He could not risk being outed as a traitor of the United States military right now, not when he was in perfect position to keep tabs on Rogers in particular.

“I’ll do what I can, but I won’t risk the mission, sir,” he replied slowly, his eyes flicking over to take in Zola lingered by the console. The little man nodded at him slightly. “I’ll report as often as it’s safe to do so.”

Schmidt watched him before pointedly looking towards the Tesseract. The warning was very clear. The Skull didn’t entirely trust him but was willing to let him act in the best interests of HYDRA for the time being, no doubt waiting for him to provide on what he had promised.

“Be gone, Corporal,” Schmidt finally said.

Rumlow nodded, needing no more dismissal as he gathered the energy that had been ramped up by the Tesseract already, closed his eyes to set the position of the moon and stars and the site of Piccadilly Square in his mind, and then he was gone from the Alps.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The battle scene of Nauders, Austria was meant to represent the first scenes of the battle montage seen in The First Avenger. As far as I can tell, Nauders had not actually suffered destruction during World War II.
> 
> Units needing to meet objectives, under go patrols or meet up together were assigned seemingly random words as code to identify themselves. Unable to answer the code command, the individual in question was deemed an enemy and often shot on the spot. This was the limit friendly fire between units and especially during the dark where identification of uniforms was difficult.
> 
> Thank you to any and all who take the time to read my work. I appreciate all comments or kudos.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again with another wee chapter. I'm still shaky with Peggy's voice, though I've tried as much as I can to base it on Agent Carter TV series. I'm not sure if it comes across in her voice the same way, but I, of course, want to give ode to her and Steve's relationship. They would have made a remarkable team together, and it's too bad she saw so little combat in the WWII era that we saw in film.

*****

**London, England - January 1944**   


Steve stepped up onto the sidewalk easily, only tightening his elbow slightly with the pull of the hand settled there. Agent Carter needed no coddling, and he never provided any, respecting her ability to both be a wonderful woman and an excellent officer. The click of her heels sounded on the smooth cement as they leisurely walked back towards the headquarters of the SSR.

It had been a very pleasant evening, the last before he and the Commandos shipped out again for the Danish Straits. He had taken Agent Carter out for dinner and a picture show, as they had both agreed that dancing was not yet something they should be attempting in the crowded dancing pubs in London for the time being. He’d like to attempt to learn the steps before potentially embarrassing or hurting someone in public.

Afterwards, he had insisted that he walk her back to her barracks with the WACs. In response, she had insisted on walking him back to his barracks pointedly. They had easily agreed to part at the SSR headquarters, which was roughly halfway between the two separate barracks for their genders.

He thoroughly enjoyed the press of her calloused hand at the crook of his elbow, holding on more to be polite to him than because she needed any kind of assistance. They walked companionably, her red heels clicking on the pavement and his hobnailed boots doing much the same. It was cold but clear, and the hustle and bustle of other officers on day passes had long since died down, either returned to their barracks or keeping out later than was allowed.

Still the distance hoots and hollers of men and women enjoying themselves reached them as they walked. Steve smiled, faulting no one from having a good time. War had pressed upon many the need to live life to the fullest because there was no telling what would happen from one moment to the next. He respected that though he didn’t indulge so thoroughly himself.

He instead looked over Agent Carter walking next to him in that red dress that took his breath away and made him hot beneath his uniform collar. “You’ve never said how you enjoy being back in London again.”

“No, I haven’t,” Peggy replied, glancing up at him with a smile.

Steve smiled and ducked his head a little, long used to her straight-forward, no-nonsense attitude that so often stripped any conversation of gender and authority roles. It was very refreshing and yet always caught him pleasantly off guard.

“Do you have family here?” He persisted because he did want to get to know her.

“I write to my family as time permits,” she relented and slowed their walk to something of a dawdle. “They understand and support my need to pursue my carrier in the SSR. Besides, the last I heard, they were still helping to move the rubble from the bombings with their neighbours.”

He resisted the reflexive idea that she was looking for an apology. He had seen first hand how strong and resilient the British population was. It was one of the countries that had stuck to its agreements since the First Great War and even weathered German assault despite the considerable disadvantage of being the only nation able to withstand the constant weight of the Nazi air strikes. It helped that Britain was an island, but even still, it was a marvel the strength of the people who lived here.

“Will you stay here once the war is over?”

Agent Carter flicked her eyes at him. “Well, I suppose it depends how much of the world is left when all this is said and done. I’m certain that the cleanup will be considerable across every country affected, so I doubt I shall be bored.”

Steve turned his face up towards the night’s sky, able to pick out the brightest of the stars. “Maybe you can take the time to teach me to dance,” he intoned cheerily. “You might want to bring your boots though, in case I step on your feet.”

Peggy shook her head and patted his forearm in feigned sympathy. “Steven, don’t you think you should practice with your men? Surely one of them has an idea.”

“Well… Bucky tried once, but he complained I spent too much time standing on his feet to make progress,” he said with a light laugh. “Dugan seems like a worthwhile gentlemen to ask next.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suspect you should try Dernier if you have any hope of learning how to lead in the steps,” she teased with a twinkle in her eye. He noted that she had suggested the Commando closest to her height. “Depending on his feet size, I’d be willing to lend him a pair.”

Now he did laugh, tightening his elbow on her hand. “Only if you promise to send along the red pair.”

They lapsed into a friendly amused silence, still dawdling leisurely down the street in no hurry at all for where they were going or the fact that tomorrow, there was a chance that they might never see each other again. He never believed that was going to happen, even if he recognized the risk that he and his team were taking. Everyone at war was at risk.

Together they crossed the cobblestone street to the other side, drawing closer and closer to the SSR headquarters. This area of town was not deserted, but most people were inside, leaving the illusion of privacy. Parked cars lined the streets, and the only particular objects denoting a war zone was how the stairs often had sandbags stacked at entrances to hold them open and offer limited protection.

“Next mission, you should join us. We could use your knowledge of the European front,” he murmured, glancing at her.

She didn’t even miss a step. “The policy of the US military is that women are non-combatants.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “And I was a 4-F all my life, yet here I am. Women are just as capable and certain in combat as any man.” He often had to bite his tongue at some of the military policies that included women, homosexuals and people of different ethnicities. The only merit the military should be looking for was a person’s willingness to fight for their country. “Heck, I would be proud to stand with a unit comprising of all women.”

Agent Carter smiled at him, tightening her fingers on his elbow. There was a colour of approval in her eyes and the rise of her lips was so genuine that he had the sudden urge to lean down and kiss her. “You will change the world, Steve. You are a very special and unique individual.”

It was the highest of compliments. “So are you, Peggy. Nothing can hold you back; you’re going to do great things. You already have.”

They walked another block together before he came to a stop, and she let him. There was no fuss about it, even as she stepped around to face him, looking up the difference in height. There was something so strange looking down at her when before he could look her straight in the eye. He released her hand at the same time she withdrew it and the light from the lamppost filled their little spot with the illusion of warmth.

He watched her for a very long time, only tilting his head slightly at what he thought might be an air siren some distance away. It wasn’t, probably just a telephone, though those were currently a novelty given how faulty the lines were.

“Peggy,” he started.

“Are you going to kiss me, Captain, or not?”

Steve couldn’t stop himself from gaping at her, but if she expected anything else, she certainly didn’t show it as she sighed heavily. Reaching up, she grasped his tie and pulled him down, and while he could have resisted, there was no part of him that wanted to. She kissed him, rather than the other way around, and he was stunned by the warm flush of her lips, so different from the last military woman who had kissed him. Peggy was harder, demanding in a way that was all teaching and less trying to get her lips to meld with his. It was very pleasant.

He haphazardly threw himself into it, probably too late to make much of a difference, but Peggy gave him a chance to show his mettle before withdrawing. She stroked his tie through her hand and then casually slipped it back into place in his brown uniform jacket.

“Well, I shall consider this a successful date, don’t you?”

“Uh yeah,” he replied, resisting the urge to touch his lips, which tingled pleasantly. The best date he had ever had actually.

Steve stuck out his elbow to her again, and she took it without more than a smile as they returned to walking to the SSR headquarters. He slowed within a few feet of walking, tilting his head again at the faint sound of a telephone again, but something was definitely off. The hairs on the back of his neck rose just as Peggy’s hand tightened in an inquiry to the shift of attention.

He slipped her hand off of his arm and grasped her wrist, not about the leave her behind as he began to move into the shadow cast by the building and more directly out of the light. He released her entirely and began his silent movements forward towards the entrance of the SSR building, which was mostly underground thanks to all the previous air raids from the Germans.

The soft click of Agent Carter’s shoes disappeared, but he didn’t glance back as he slid along the stone and cement buildings towards the office. He drew up short and slipped behind a set of cement stairs, feeling Peggy move in behind him. He heard the soft rustle of her handbag and then the cocking of a gun, no doubt her Walther PPK which was never off of her person at any time.

His eyebrows drew together as he counted one, two… no, Steve stayed where he was and counted twelve individuals leaving the SSR. At least a quarter of the group was carrying long cylinders, hurrying away from the building in a manner that was suspicious.

He turned his head to regard Peggy. “Twelve individuals leaving the SSR. Are we moving supplies tonight?”

“No,” she said and immediately rose from next to him. Her red shoes were sticking out of her handbag.

“Check the SSR, and I’m going to follow them,” Steve said, letting her get ahead of him before he crept off to the opposite side for the street and hurried his way to the location that he had last seen line of men moving away.

He came to crouch next to the corner and peered around, seeing the last two men turn the corner further down, obviously in a hurry. He tried to think of what sort of operation could be going on in the middle of the night. The air sirens began to sound, first in the distance and then closer to his current location. It spread throughout London and beyond in a matter of minutes.

Steve moved off down the street after the twelve who had all turned the corner, keeping lower than usual and wishing he had his shield with him. It hadn’t been appropriate for a date, and there was no time to go back for it, not with the distant sound of German bombers under the wail of the sirens and the cry of the ack-ack guns.

He hurried the entire block and turned the corner, sighting the last four hurrying down the lane and then turning into a narrow alleyway. It was almost impossible to hear anything with the blaring sirens, yet as he moved down the street, he still knew that Peggy was coming up fast behind him.

She was still not wearing any shoes and her hair carried the windswept look that came with hurried action. “Captain, they’ve taken blueprints and I suspect maps from the SSR. We cannot let them leave London!”

“Right, I’m going to chase. Follow behind me, and if you get a shot, you take it,” Steve said even as she handed him a M1911A1 Colt, no doubt picked up from the SSR as he was under the impression neither of them had brought sidearms beyond her Walther.

“Capture if able, Captain,” Agent Carter said over the loud sirens.

“If this is HYDRA or a spy agency, what’s the fastest way out of London?” He began a swift march, looking to the windows for signs of activity.

“There is the waterways, but they would require a submarine for that. Otherwise, vehicle to the outskirts and a damn good pilot to get them off the ground fast,” Peggy said as she trotted to keep up with his longer stride. “This air raid is no doubt a cover for their theft.”

“Someone would have seen their plane land this far inland,” he said, glancing over at Peggy in her fine red dress and smiling. He was always honoured to serve with a soldier of her skill. “Where is the nearest waterway big enough to hide a submarine fit for a crew of twenty?”

“Thames, but it would possible that they hid themselves in the Grand Union Canal,” Agent Carter said.

“We head for Thames then,” Steve said and picked up his pace now that he had an idea where he was going. He, of course, had the advantage of having Peggy, who knew the area very well. “Any shortcuts there would be good right about now.”

Agent Carter was not to be outdone by foreign agents taking military secrets, and regardless of her lack of footwear, she charged ahead of him and ran, taking him from the obvious path that he would have taken to different little cuts through yards, down footpaths that had only recently been cleaned up from previous bombings and attempts to sandbag the area secure.

All the while, the air sirens wailed and the distant sound of planes and then explosions could be heard on the outskirts of London. The streets that they ran along were deserted save for the odd person leaving their home to head down into designated bomb shelters to weather out the storm that the German’s were bringing.

They darted into a small side street, and by now, he could easily smell water from the canal that they were heading for. He even thought that he could see the light reflecting off the edge of the dark waters in the distance, and now he knew exactly where he was going.

Aware that time was of the essence, he sped up and left Peggy behind, his longer stride eating up the ground. He ignored the two soldiers crowding around a third who was vomiting in a potted plant, ignoring their laughing mockery and revelry. His entire concern was for getting to the Thames waterway with enough time to look for signs of the insurgent team that had taken SSR goods.

He twisted around the corner and spotted part of the group ahead making fast for the stonework edge. He raised his Colt and fired, taking down one man about to jump over the ledge to the waters below and immediately attracted attention to himself. The act of doing so paused their escape.

Two scrambled to get over the ledge, and they happened to be the ones with arms full of cylinders no doubt full of plans and maps. He fired and missed, but he kept running at a full charge.

He had noticed that many people, particularly in dimmed light, had trouble rationalizing the speed that he moved at. He closed as they brought out P38 lugers, but he had already fired off another shot to drop the man, who he noted was dressed in British style clothing. He had to drop and roll to avoid being fired upon himself, hiding behind a parked car.

Despite the air sirens, he picked out the sound of Peggy’s Walther PPK discharging. He twisted around the front of the stationary car and fired his Colt into another of the enemy soldiers. Two had dropped to the ground for better, if limited, cover and were firing towards Peggy.

Steve looked back and saw her with three uniformed soldiers, and he guessed them to be the ones he had passed just a moment before arriving here. One certainly looked to be swaying, but the other two were closing the distance as Agent Carter covered their progress forward, despite the fact it was pretty much a kamikaze run until the neat row of parked cars began.

Suddenly, the soldier on the left flared blue and grabbed the other one around the middle and both disappeared, only to appear again behind a parked car to his right. He immediately recognized Brock Rumlow and James Falsworth swaying and clutching at the vehicle before both were vomiting on the cobblestones.

“Bloody lot of good that did,” Monty chided once his retching had stopped.

“Fuck off, you’re still alive aren’t you?”

“Well, I admit it was a unique experience to feel like I was briefly coming apart and sewn incorrectly back together,” Falsworth replied, only to grunt with a punch to the chest. “Now really…”

“Shut it, I was just settling things back into proper order,” Rumlow said with a chuckle. “Damn unappreciative, Tommy.”

“Rumlow, Falsworth,” Steve called, catching the pairs attention. “You two have weapons?”

“I do believe it’s against regulation,” Falsworth said even while eyeing Rumlow who had pulled out a nasty looking knife from a boot. Even in the dark, both of them could obviously tell it wasn’t standard issue. “A sidearm and a knife, apparently between the two of you.”

Rumlow looked over at him, spinning the blade into hand. “We’ve got this, Cap.”

“Falsworth, I need you to get the plans they are stealing and bring them back around here. They cannot get away with that information,” he ordered, all of them peering over the tops of their vehicles to sight several long cylinders nearby the dead.

He didn’t waste time and jumped the hood of the car he was behind, firing at a soldier trying to get over the ledge to the waterway. Agent Carter was still firing, and it allowed him to rush up and slam one of the still standing soldiers to the ground, stunned. He grabbed the P38 on the ground and tossed it to Falsworth.

It then was reduced to a close quarters and very dangerous fire fight, made more so by the fact that Morita was the tottering third of their group who had lost most of his ability to aim with the man’s state of drunkenness. He felt the graze of a bullet against his left calf as he moved to engage one of the last soldier’s standing, only to freeze at the flick of a pin.

“Grenade,” he roared over the wailing sirens and everyone scattered to find cover.

Rumlow appeared in a blink of blue light, knife slashing the soldier’s throat viciously. The bold move of shoving the body over to land on the grenade was something that he knew he would have attempted. The grenade detonated before the dying soldier hit the cobblestones, but Rumlow had also blinked out and avoided injury.

The three remaining soldiers suddenly dropped to the ground, not even bothering with the usual cries of ‘kamarand’. Their sudden loss pinned them to be agents of HYDRA, who always committed suicide rather than be captured.

Steve rushed over to the ledge to look down into the deep dark waters of the Thames, sighting the rope ladder and the open hatch leading to the small submersible vehicle. He doubted that HYDRA had enough men to pilot it, but he also knew going down in there was going to be a high risk situation.

Falsworth joined him on the ledge, assessing the situation with a glance. “Might I suggest a well placed grenade?”

“We’ll lose whatever information they have,” he replied with a shake of his head.

“Better to lose it to the water than HYDRA,” Rumlow stated, coming up on his left side. There was a fresh bleeding cut on the man’s temple.

Steve took the grenade that Falsworth had picked up from one of the bodies, and he waited until Monty had fired shots enough to limit any lurking soldier inside from throwing it back out or firing upon them. He flipped the pin and dropped it with what he assumed would have been a satisfying ‘plunk’ into the hatch, and a few seconds later, there was a resounding ‘boom’ from inside the submarine.

Smoke drifted up from the open hatch and a few minutes later a HYDRA agent with severe burns crawled out. Steve gave the only mercy he could and killed the suffering agent with a bullet to the head. No one else emerged.

The air sirens still blared their warning. In the distance, German V-1 and V-2 bombs fell on London.

*****

Morita was passed out in a chair, mouth ajar and gentle grunting snores leaving the man. It was probably the place that all of them wanted to be, but for now, they had to tend their own injuries and account for the incident. Colonel Phillips had been notified and would no doubt be coming to assess the damage personally, and all four of them still awake had agreed to wait to give their version of a report. The few captured agents had been tied up and left guarded by the submarine to be interrogated later by the SSR.

Agent Carter had bruised and cut feet from running on the cobblestones, but she made no complaint as she provided everyone with the first aid kits that were located in SSR headquarters. Falsworth was tending to a bullet graze to the right arm and right side, both requiring sutures, which Peggy provided without complaint. Rumlow carried a few old bruises and a single cut to the temple that required only some pressure and a thorough cleaning. Steve had his pant leg rolled up to the knee and was tending to a bullet wound to his calf; his was, by far, the worst injury of the group.

The other agents who had been guarding the SSR and compiling intelligence were by the door, bodies covered in white sheets. There were still drying pools of blood around the large expansive map area. Aside from moving the dead, they had not cleaned up anything but themselves.

As he was washing out his wound and applying thick gauze on the side of the entry and the exit holes, he noted that Peggy was looking between the three of the conscious Howling Commandos. He was wrapping his own leg up when Rumlow rose from the table and left, the sound of a man being sick into the bathroom obvious even with the door closed.

“Captain, were you going to inform the SSR of one of your soldier’s… unique abilities at any point?” Peggy was pricking Falsworth with a threaded needle, but he knew that wasn’t the reason his Lieutenant jumped slightly.

Steve shrugged his shoulders. “There’s not much to tell, Agent. Corporal Rumlow is part of the Commandos.”

“Steve.”

He had to look up at the tone in Peggy’s voice, and he ducked his head slightly. He glanced at Falsworth for aid on the matter. “Schmidt experimented on him, but the results of those tests aren’t entirely clear to us. He can’t always control it.”

“And that was the first time he moved someone other than himself,” Falsworth added quietly. “It is not an experience I would recommend anyone participating in willingly.”

Agent Carter looked between the pair of them before glancing over to see if Morita was still sleeping off the alcohol. “A doctor should investigate this matter, especially if _this_ is the after effect,” she said as there was another onslaught of vomiting from the lavatory.

Falsworth glanced at him. “A rare outcome, I assure you.”

“Agent Carter, the Howling Commandos were put together for a very specific purpose, and I need every member of my team right now. Corporal Rumlow’s ability to move himself is a boon for us,” Steve heard himself saying, even if his ears strained to listen for signs that Brock was in need of assistance. This reaction was in fact concerning, but he liked to think that Rumlow had simply indulged too much into the cups tonight. “We all have our unique skills and abilities on this unit. I won’t sacrifice one of my men to the scientific reserve to poke him when he’s doing everything he can to serve his country like the rest of us.”

Peggy was taking her time in formulating a reply as she stitched up Falsworth’s side, but he and his Lieutenant exchanged more than one significant look. He knew that he had every Commandos support in keeping this matter between them unless it was a danger to either Rumlow or them. It wasn’t the first time that Rumlow had taken active risks with that ‘blink’ ability as Dugan called it.

“It’s your unit, Captain, but if his ability came as a result of his time in that HYDRA encampment, he should be seen to,” Agent Carter said slowly. “If it could be passed on…”

“It can’t,” Rumlow suddenly said from behind them. “And I’m a soldier, not a lab rat. If Rogers is the only super-soldier fighting and you don’t oppose the risks he’s taking, you have no right to oppose my doing the same thing.”

Steve turned from where he had just seated himself and smiled at Brock, though he noted that the other man appeared pale and worn. It wasn’t the kind of condition that looked to be generated from alcohol consumption either, and it reminded him of when he had had to haul Rumlow out of the HYDRA facility. He made a note to question his Corporal personally when this was all said and done.

“Corporal, my intentions are the same as every other person involved in this effort: to win the war,” Peggy said firmly.

“Then let me do my job, and it will be won,” Rumlow replied, a touch petulantly.

“Colonel Phillips should know what kind of unit he has built,” Peggy added significantly. It was true that the head of the SSR should be aware of what they all could do.

“With all due respect ma’am, if that is the case, every single prisoner from that work camp should be investigated,” Falsworth said simply. “We all suffered the same; we all worked the same hours; we all were given a once-over by a member of the Red Cross. We are all fit for duty, and it is duty we are carrying out.”

Steve watched Rumlow move to the seat next to him and gingerly take it. He dropped a hand to squeeze the other man’s wrist, and he received a half-hearted smirk in return. “The point is, we aren’t reporting this.”

Agent Carter looked at him, read his expression as she was so easily able to do, and she inclined her head in acceptance to his declaration. He knew that if this got out, Brock and Bucky would be looked at closer because those two had been the only survivors of the isolation wing. He also knew that Peggy would not say anything, believed that his judgement on the matter was more important than the possible line they were all crossing by not saying anything to Phillips.

Suddenly, Morita jerked awake after sliding a bit in the chair and blinked blurry-eyed at them. “Whaddye miss?”

“Agent Carter’s strip-tease,” Rumlow said dryly.

“Oh yes, it was quite a significant display of the leg just above my knee,” Peggy added with a very lady-like sniff.

“A jolly good show,” Falsworth added as the Lieutenant pulled on a damaged shirt again now that all the sutures were in place. “I’ve been informed that there won’t be a repeat performance, Jim. A bloody shame.”

Morita blinked owlishly and then snorted and just went back to sleep. Steve knew it was his smile that had given the entire joke up. He didn’t mind in the least as they all awaited the arrival of Colonel Phillips and no doubt half the day staff from the SSR.

It turned out that they weren’t left in suspense long, though even in that time, Rumlow had began to doze on his shoulder while Monty and Peggy went over the plans that they had reacquired and hauled back to the SSR. They had only lost two maps that defined troop mobilization in the British Isles, which would have been a blow to have in the enemy’s hands.

Steve was elevating his injured leg on a vacant stool, and his fingers were gently stroking the inside of Brock’s wrist well out of view under the table. He couldn’t explain the draw to his friend, couldn’t explain how Rumlow just seemed to naturally fall asleep next to or on him even in situations like these, not that he cared particularly if anyone frowned upon it. He just found it immensely conflicting given the fact he had gone and very much enjoyed his date with Peggy. The bond of brotherhood with fellow soldiers felt _different_ when Brock was involved.

He was never going to hear the end of it from Bucky, who took great interest in his love life still. If he was caught like this or it got back to his best friend - and it would - he would be ribbed for days.

Steve turned his head at the sound of vehicles pulling up outside of the SSR, and he gently nudged Brock awake. Their fingers brushed and briefly threaded before Rumlow’s hand withdrew as his friend sat up in the chair and stretched, still looking pale.

“Good work, Captain, Agent Carter,” Colonel Phillips said with the usual gruff briskness. The craggy old man gave only a single look to the bodies of their officers laying under sheets and moved on. “I’ve already been on the horn with the British Intelligence Division, and they can’t explain how a submarine carrying twenty HYDRA agents snuck into London.”

“Perhaps under the protection of the known U-boat army beyond our waters,” Falsworth put in simply.

Phillips marched over to Morita and poked their intoxicated colleague awake. “Son, you’re going to want to pay attention now,” the Colonel said and looked immediately to Agent Carter. “What did they take?”

“Blueprints and a selection of maps, sir,” she replied smartly. “However, as far as I can tell, we only lost two maps of gathering troop placements, but it appears that they were mainly after blueprints. Those have all been successfully recovered.”

“Good,” said the Colonel before looking around at the group assembled. “London has taken a beating from new long-range ballistic weapons from the Wehrmacht. Damage reports are still coming in from all over the city, but we’re scrambling a team together to attach the Commandos with a glider unit being shipped the North Africa.”

Steve suddenly sat forward, and he paid very particular attention now. “New mission objective?”

The Colonel gave him a very long serious look. “HYDRA is apparently experimenting with their own super-soldier serum. It’s being tried and tested on submarine sailors, safely contained for easy destruction if things go wrong, if the information is correct. You’re going to catch me a submarine, Captain. Think you can?”

He looked around the table at the half of his team assembled, noting their serious expressions. Morita looked only half-awake but the half that was nodded when their gazes met. This kind of dangerous work was what they were good at.

He looked at Colonel Phillips and nodded his head. “I’ll put together a requisition of supplies. We’ll capture a submarine, sir.”

“Good, and then with it, you and your men are going to locate the U-base we suspect is in the Mediterranean Coastline somewhere. That may or may not be the actual scientific research facility. You’re going to tell me if it is or isn’t,” the Colonel said briskly.

“I would like to request Agent Carter to accompany the Howling Commandos, sir,” Steve said, though he knew that he never needed to give her any kind of service request. She did very well on her own, but it seemed like a good opportunity.

“Denied. I have a different project that Agent Carter will be assigned to, one that will be important to our future operations,” Phillips replied without missing a beat. “You have three days to debrief your team. I want those requisitions by tomorrow 0900, Captain.”

“Yes sir,” Steve replied, pushing himself gingerly from his seat. He toe-touched with his injured leg, catching the Colonel’s eye. “It won’t be a problem, sir.”

He received a frown but finally a nod from Phillips. “Your call, Rogers. Dismissed and get your men to their bunks.”

The Colonel walked off to view the blueprints that their team had recaptured, and he reached out to nudge Rumlow up. He limped around the table, one hand on Brock’s shoulder for support as they moved towards the exit of the SSR where staff were mourning their fallen co-workers and gathering up the mess that the HYDRA agents had made in their haste to get in and get out again with SSR blueprints.

Rumlow slipped an arm around his waist to help him hop up the stairs to the street level, and Falsworth was forced to do much the same with Morita but for different reasons. He only kept a hand on Brock to help him limp, but they all stopped at a call from the doorway.

Peggy emerged, limping on her bandaged feet. “Captain, a word if you please.”

The three Commandos moved off and waited for him while seated on stacked sandbags as he returned to where Peggy was waiting for him. He smiled at her, aware that her job would be a tough one with the intelligence gathering and setting up appropriate missions with Colonel Phillips.

“Is this a request for that good night kiss we never got to?” Steve widened his smile and shifted so that the Commandos would only have a good look at his back and little else.

“Well, considering only one of us is going to bed, it seems pointless now doesn’t it?” Agent Carter still smiled at him before her expression turned serious. “About what you did there with the Colonel, Steve. I appreciate you requesting my presence on missions, but…”

Steve held up a hand to forestall her complaint. He understood that what he had done might appear as coddling to her, but it simply wasn’t. “Peggy. Agent Carter, I requested your presence because you’re a damn good soldier and for no other reason. You’ve proven, as you always do, that the strength of your character and your skills as a contributing member of this military isn’t limited by your gender or your perceived role by men.”

Agent Carter stared at him a long time and then simply rose on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “I think that’s the first speech you’ve made to me where you haven’t stumbled over your words,” she remarked.

Steve flushed and ducked his head. “I just needed a bit more practice, that’s all.”

“Yes, and look at your improvement already,” Peggy said, pushing him gently in the chest. “Dismissed, Captain. Get yourself and your men to your bunks.”

“You can’t order me; I outrank you, you know,” he pointed out. He was already turning away to leave anyway though, and she caught the motion with a razor smile. “Good night, Agent Carter.”

“Good night, Captain Rogers,” she replied. She raised her voice for the Commandos. “Good night, gentlemen.”

“Night, Agent Carter,” Rumlow called at the same time that Falsworth tipped his red beret.

“Sweet dreams, Lady Walther,” Morita managed to slur loudly.

Steve chuckled and returned to the three men slowly, limping but still forcing himself to walk on his own two feet. They all made their way back to their barracks slowly for various reasons, his arm across the back of Brock’s shoulders comfortably and Falsworth holding up Morita.

“Fun night drinking, boys?”

“Oh yes, picking Morita out of flower pots was exactly how I dreamed of spending my evening,” Falsworth replied sarcastically. “And neither the ‘Coon nor I were drinking.”

Brock growled at the continued use of the nickname, but they all knew by now that making a fuss only encouraged the men to use it more often. “Monty was showing me the sights. We just happened across Morita on our way back.”

“You hanging in there, Jim?” He kept his tone light, trying to not laugh.

“S’ok, Cap,” Morita replied from being held from stumbling too much next to them. “Still not sure why Carter gave me a gun though….”

“Damn mysteries of the universe,” Brock muttered. Steve finally did laugh.

*****

**Tarrant Rushton, England - February 1944**   


The Commandos had been given brief training on how to arrangement themselves into a British Horsa glider and how to get out quickly in case something went wrong in one. They were not required to take as much equipment as they normally would in entering into a possible active combat zone. The Horsa gliders were being moved for specialized training in North Africa, which the Allies had gotten a good foothold into. Their pilots were getting experience and moving materials, including the Commandos around before any kind of mobilized action into the European Theater beyond Italy.

While the Halifax Bombers and glider pilots were hooking up the lines to tug the Horsas, the Commandos stood at the end of the runway shouldering on the gear that they would be taking with them. He was one of the few men who had been trained (or at least made it up as he went) how to use parachutes and successfully land without breaking his legs. The gliders were supposed to land safely, but Colonel Phillips wanted them trained and comfortable with the use and deployment of of parachutes as a ‘just-in-case’. Falsworth, Jones, Rumlow and Barnes were all gamely about the idea, but Dugan and Dernier seemed rather skeptical as to the importance of the exercise.

Steve thought that was due to Bucky playfully pulling Jones’ parachute deployment strap during a windstorm that left their comrade being dragged across the turf to the delight of half of the men. He had been forced to discipline his best friend with heavy labour for the last day, but he could tell that Bucky was still all nudges and winks at Jones.

He walked by the Commandos as they checked and double checked equipment. He paused by Jones and Dernier going over things in an exchange of French, and he had, by now, picked up a few words of his own. It wasn’t enough to puzzle out what the pair was talking about, but Dernier still seemed skeptical.

“Problem,” he finally asked.

“No, Cap, Dernier just isn’t comfortable jumping out of a plane or glider or whatever else we happen to be flying in,” Jones replied with a smile. “He prefers ground vehicles where it’s less likely we’ll have to compete with gravity when we take a hit.”

“Tell him, if he lands with all his gear, I’ll hoof it to the Algerian camp we’re hitting,” Steve said with a smile.

Gabe Jones explained his offer to Jacques who looked between the pair of them and then replied something that he didn’t catch aside from ‘he’ and ‘toilet’. He wasn’t certain he was going to like this translation.

“He roughly said that he wants you to buy him enough whiskey so that he vomits…”

“...in the toilet,” Steve remarked. “I got that last part.”

Jones chuckled before shooting a suspicious look at Bucky who happened to be walking by, but aside from a smirk, his friend just kept hopping here and there to settle the pack comfortably. He smiled and kept himself between Jones and Bucky’s possible sniper fingers.

“Dernier can be out third too. I hear that’s the safest position,,” he remarked. “Get him in his pack and we’ll see about the rest.”

“Right, Cap,” Jones agreed and began to help Dernier finish loading what was no doubt the heaviest weight of the entire time. Apparently there were some munition shells their bomb expert couldn’t leave without.

Steve left the pair, making made a check of Dugan and Rumlow’s gear, but the pair appeared to be set to go without his help. He noted that Dum Dum kept shifting that bowler hat or smoothing the man’s moustache while Rumlow looked surprisingly comfortable loaded and ready to either jump out of a plane or land with a glider.

Falsworth was checked and reported to him that they were only waiting for the final checks of the pilots before they were loaded. That left him wandering over to Bucky who was attempting to sit down on the ground. While his friend was not overloaded, their gear was heavily weighing in at seventy-five pounds rather than the usual one-hundred and no doubt would end with some kind of struggle to rise again once seated.

“You might not want to do that,” he remarked, smiling at their sniper. “What if I told you I wouldn’t help you back up?”

Bucky chuckled and successfully sat without tipping backwards. “I’d say you’re either a liar or you’re no longer my best friend. Your choice on which is true.”

He managed to feign a wounded look and nudged at one of his friend’s knees to see if he could tip Bucky all the way backwards. The swat in reply to his antics was far off the mark, but the dirty look promised some manner of rough housing.

“You know I’m a terrible liar,” he pointed out. “And you can’t actually get rid of me that easily. I did undergo questionable scientific experimentation to save your confined behind from HYDRA.”

“How long are you going to bring up the HYDRA work camp rescue, Steve? You’d think you’ve done the impossible with it,” Bucky replied sardonically.

Steve smiled easily. “At least until the war ends, or you do something just as fantastic?”

“Typical,” his friend chided with a shake and made the mistake of leaning back too far. He was very certain Bucky was stuck, but the other man just pretended to be lounging. “I’d give my left arm to save you, but you just have to charge in ahead before I can.”

“Isn’t that why you’re the sniper, and I’m wielding a shield?”

Bucky pretended to discount the versatility and multi-use abilities of the vibranium shield that he brought into battle with a prim wave of a hand. This was all friendly banter and nothing more, as he had long ago sold his friend on the shield. “You just like to be different, Rogers. Always flashy and showy.”

“I wonder who I learned that from,” Steve replied dryly.

“Obviously Dugan,” Bucky said immediately. “He’s a very loud peacock.”

They both looked over to where Dugan and Rumlow were discussing some subject or another, nothing serious based on how both had their thumbs tucked into straps or beltloops. Dugan was puffing on a cigarette, not particularly a habit the man took up for anything more than an occasional way to pass the time socially. Whatever the pair were doing over there, neither looked anything like a peacock.

In fact, the only reasonable peacock-like person was making subtle attempts to sit up and failing each time much to his amusement. His friend was well and truly stuck on the ground pinned back by the weight of the back and all the added gear.

He just raised an eyebrow, earning himself a glare even as he stuck his hand out for Bucky to take. For him, it was not difficult to haul both friend and pack upright, and he smirked when Bucky struggled to rise completely with shaky knees. “I did warn you.”

“And you get to stay my best friend too. Aren’t you happy,” Bucky chirped.

“I’m about to explode into rainbows of joy,” he replied with a shake of his head.

“There you go being dramatic and flashy again,” Bucky said before stiffening slightly. He turned his head at the same time that his best friend began needling his ribs with an elbow.

Steve folded his hands as much behind his back as he could with his pack in the way as Agent Carter approached with an armful of papers. He noted that she still carried a faint limp, but she was back in her heels as if nothing were amiss and drew as much attention from all the lingering or practicing men as she usually did.

She walked over to him and immediately offered him two surveillance pictures, both in black and white. He held one in each hand and examined them at the same time that Bucky did, though it was actually very difficult to tell what they were looking at. There was a dark elongated object to the right of something very white, which he suspected might actually be fire based on how much more fuzzy it was.

He looked over at Agent Carter, and she handed him a printed a copy of a German newspaper and a translation. It was obvious halfway through that the pictures were of the submarine that they had been charged with finding and commandeering.

“The _Leviathan_?”

“It’s a state of the art submarine in Schmidt’s arsenal that he has apparently loaned to the Nazi’s to keep the Allies from easily controlling the crossing between North Africa and Italy. It has been attacking Allied merchant vessels in the Mediterranean with a torpedo we have never seen before,” Agent Carter said formally before gesturing at the two photos in Bucky’s hand. “Those two photos were from aerial surveillance, the only two we have of the _Leviathan_.”

Steve passed over the paper and translation and took back the photos to get a better look at them. The pictures weren’t any clearer now than they had been before. “Do we have a location?”

“No, it is always on the move,” Peggy replied. “Always hunting, as the saying goes for the U-boats.”

“And this?”

“Ah, that would formally be the SS Mayflower. It was sunk forty kilometers off of the tip of Spain as it left to return to America,” she said.

Bucky moved closer but appeared to not make any more out of the grainy photos. “How are we supposed to catch this, ma’am?”

Peggy smiled as she looked between the pair of them, even as the rest of the Commandos began to assemble closer to listen into the conversation. There would be no joking around anymore, not with information being given. It was obvious that Peggy would still not be going with them. She waited until everyone had crowded in with their gear and both the photos and the paper was being passed around.

“The _Leviathan_ sinks a merchant vessel, but unlike other submarines, we believe their crew has been charged with collecting any survivors. This may be directly related to the experimentation or information gathering,” she said loud enough for all the group to hear.

_”Torpedoes?”_ Dernier was examining the photo far more closely than anyone else. Gabe Jones provided the translation.

Everyone turned their attention to Agent Carter who was leafing through the armful of papers. The calls from the Halifax bombers and Horsa pilots were raised as final checks were done, and their debriefing would have to come to an end. They were on a tight schedule, and they just happened to be fitting in with the departing crews and were no way allowed to alter the timeline. They weren’t even supposed to be here or known to be anywhere outside of London right now.

Finally, Peggy pulled a slip of paper from the stock and handed it to Dernier. “The loose translation of their name is the ‘thunder lance torpedo’.”

“HYDRA really love their dramatic names,” Dugan said with a sigh.

“It wouldn’t be HYDRA if it wasn’t all full-tilt of crazy cult worshipers,” Morita replied blithely.

“As interesting as debating names is, gentlemen, these newly developed torpedoes are not something to be trifled with,” Agent Carter said, directing the conversation back on track to what they need to know. “Not only do their pack a wallop on a direct hit, even a glancing one knocks a ship out. The ‘thunder’ aspect of the name is quite literal as a wave of electricity is sent through the ship it hits, knocking out electrical guidance systems and generally electrocuting the crew.”

There was a silence before Dernier offered only a whistle of appreciation when Jones finished translating. He ignored the glances that Bucky shot him, because regardless of the risks of being on a merchant vessel when it was sunk, he had to be there.

“Aren’t we putting Cap in unnecessary danger for this mission,” Falsworth asked. “I doubt he’s immune to electrocution.”

“You don’t think a little thunder will make his already award-winning personality positively electrifying?” Morita grinned apishly in the face of all the groans. 

“Why are you on this unit again,” Bucky asked far more loudly than necessary.

Morita never missed a beat. “Because I’m the only Japanese-American with a complete lack of sense and pride when it comes to mixed units like this one? Oh and I like Dugan’s hat.”

“Probably the only Japanese-American not loitering in an interrogation camp,” Rumlow muttered, but the wink took the edge off of the comment. “How’d you manage that, little yellow man?”

“If he told all his secrets, we’d have to bury you in a ditch,” Jones said with a big wide smile. Both men had no doubt suffered discrimination, which could be rampant in military life but all the same was still prominent in the civilian one.

Agent Carter gave a tight smile, allowing them a moment of banter before once again having to take them on task to direct them. Normally the Commandos were not the type of unit that was anything but silent for a debriefing. It seemed to Steve that there were more nerves than the men were letting on about being in a glider and the prospect of even jumping from one. He’d no doubt be the first man out if it came to that, not that the group needed any bolstering of courage; if anything, they were all reckless to the point of organized suicidal maneuvering.

“Our bait ship, the SS Kathleen, is well-aware of the risks,” Agent Carter said. “We are seeking counter-measures to limit casualties.”

_“Rubber,”_ Dernier said to Jones, who translated. _“Line the floors with rubber.”_

Peggy acknowledged the information with a nod. “I will pass on the suggestion to the engineering team outfitting her.”

“If these torpedoes are discharging a shock of electricity into the water, how does the _Leviathan_ keep chugging along?” Rumlow was examining the photos, glancing around the group. They all in turn looked at Peggy, assuming the information was part of the debriefing.

“That will be a sub-assignment given to Jacques Dernier to discover,” Agent Carter said simply, acknowledging their resident Frenchman with a nod of her head. He in turn beamed and nodded as if that would assure them all that it would be a simple matter once getting on board the _Leviathan_ or watching the U-boat in action. “The priority is the discovery of what sort of experimentation that HYDRA is performing on its crew members and its possible results.”

Everyone nodded, and he felt the shifted of many parts of eyes over to his location. It was not unexpected given that he was the only successful super-soldier created within the United States, and it was clear that everyone currently wanted to keep it that way. Phillips had given him more than one hard talk about never falling into enemy hands, least of all HYDRA hands.

It was a well-known fact that Schmidt had put out an order to all HYDRA operations that capturing and detaining him was a priority. It was along the same lines that the Skull had admitted that his corpse was also good enough. No doubt the race for not just wartime superiority was in motion but also the one for creating an army of super-soldiers to aid in the first objective.

Their small debriefing came to a close not long after those details were muttered about a moment or two longer, as it was time to mount up and be sealed into the gliders. Peggy took back all the information and the photos to prevent the unnecessary dissemination of information beyond their small group for the time being. They would be debriefed again in North Africa before the actual mission was to begin and to allow the SSR to have perhaps more of a lead to follow beyond ‘somewhere in the Mediterranean’.

The Commandos were pushed and loaded with their heavy gear into the Horsa glider, and he was last into the wooden machine because on any drop necessary, he would be the first one out. He was also the only one, as far as he knew, that had made a jump into active warfare before and despite intensive training, he held the most experience.

Steve settled down next to Bucky who would be second out if it was required. They were sealed up and any second thoughts on the matter of being in this wooden tub with no engines were sealed up with them. There was no turning back.

“Did you ask Agent Carter on a second date,” his friend asked next to him, jabbing a soft spot between his various straps to find a rib.

“I would have thought I’d wait until that electrifying personality I’m about to get on this mission showed up. Figured she couldn’t turn me down then,” Steve replied with a pointed glance at his best friend.

Bucky just shrugged and leaned closer. “Could ask Bones out.”

“And end up in one of those stockades I hear are being set up for being caught in that kind of act?” Steve gave Barnes a firm elbow, knocking his friend’s precarious position trying to crouch one way.

“Since when did the idea of public humiliation ever stop you,” his friend replied while trying to get back up from the impromptu seated position. Bucky was weighted with too much gear. “Come on, it’d be good for you to take a little risk.”

“Oh, like jumping out of a plane into a heavily fortified HYDRA facility to rescue my captured best friend?” He smirked in the face of the withering look that he was given. That was completely expected even as he hauled Bucky back up to stand again.

“You are never going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope, never,” he replied cheekily.

*****  
 **Algiers, Algeria - February 1944**  


It wasn’t supposed to be a place where men gathered. It was beyond the huge tents and concrete buildings with the giant red cross painted on the sides and rooftops. It was outside of the recovery area for sick or injured soldiers and not quite the airfield where bombers came in and took off. All the same, this small part of town was known to anyone fighting in the area.

Steve had found his way to it quite by accident after visiting the command tent. As he had been on his way back to the barracks to find his Commandos, there had been time to stop and investigate, at first uncertain what he would find. He found Dugan and Morita already there, quiet and off to the side, their normally smiling faces serious and not a single joke between them.

There they lay in neat even rows, white sheets or green woolen blankets laid over them. There was a stillness to this place that remained heavy even as the stretchers were picked up and taken, only to be replaced again. Each body had dogtags settled on top as identification, someday to be sent home for anxious waiting families as confirmation of their losses.

He came to stand at Dugan’s right, and he found himself looking into the face of a pale man whose day old stubble stood in stark contrast to the white palor. There was a gaping hole on the left side of the man’s throat.

“Didn’t know him well,” Dugan said softly, voice heavy and thick. “We trained and drank a few weekends, but he was transferred to the British Isles.”

“Timmy…” Morita said, a tone of deep sympathy that he had never heard before.

“He was a damn horrible drinking buddy,” Dugan replied, cutting off any sympathy. “But he wrote to me, and I wrote to him. He had a young wife and a baby on the way, may even be born now.”

Beyond their small quiet circle another company of soldiers escorted a young man - no older than nineteen by the look of him - and Steve found himself watching from a distance. It took a single look at the dogtags settled on top of a sheet before the hysterical wails started and that young boy just collapsed and threw himself bodily over the corpse. He couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone cry like that, full-bodied howls that cut the heaviness and the silence.

One by one, the young man’s comrades stood quiet and respectful, each one taking turns to crouch and grip the wailing boy’s neck or a pat on the back, offering what little support and comfort that they could. That boy could have been anyone, so young and dirty, no doubt fresh from combat and just hearing the news.

“Poor kid,” Morita said softly.

Steve looked over at his comrades and felt a deep unease pressing on him. Men didn’t come apart like that normally, not so openly. A part of him knew that that boy had probably been lovers with the one under that sheet. He had heard about this kind of grief before, deep-boned and developed with the same bond that brought men together in such stressful circumstances as war.

He turned his head when Dugan’s arm came around his wide shoulders, noting that Morita was pulled into a similar embrace. “It’s a cruel thing what men can do to other men.”

“Do you think those two…?” The question slipped from him unbidden, even if he knew. He wanted to know if Dugan and Morita understood.

“Maybe his first love,” Jim Morita intoned softly.

“Who cares,” Dugan said gruffly. “He loved. Now he mourns.”

Steve breathed a deep breath and held it, watching as more men filed in to take stock of their losses. He tried to swallow passed the lump in his throat and a part of him was thankful that no man that entered gave anything but respect and distance for the grief of the howling young man who seemed about to cry himself out. No one said a thing, just passed around like the sea parting to look at the other tags.

This was the life of a soldier. They were injected into chaotic hell, frantic and only a quarter of their survival was based on skill. The rest it was just passed on being at the right place at the right time.

All they could do was love, laugh, fight and mourn.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Horsa Gliders were used in a coup du mien for Operation Deadstick, but their pilots and the gliders themselves were trained with Americans down in Northern Africa before being put into play June 5, 1944.
> 
> Soldiers who were flown behind enemy lines were frequently carrying half of their weight in equipment and most of that was ammunition as they had no supply lines. It was common that a soldier loaded with gear couldn’t stand up from a seated position without assistance of others in their platoon once down.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I appreciate any comments and kudos that I receive.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an intern chapter between action, and yet, I found this chapter one of the best to write, mostly because it allows me to build the banter between characters. That aside, North Africa was the first big gain for the Allies along with Italy. It allowed them to organize and plan for the biggest and most successful naval invasion in known history: D-Day. Nazi-Germany had largely extended itself over vast areas of land and Hitler had been determined to keep every inch of it or bleed the Allies for each one they took back.
> 
> As always, my fics are not beta read, so apologies for any mistakes noted.

*****  
 **Algiers, Algeria - March 1944**  


Rumlow was going over his kit-bag one more time, making certain that everything that he needed from North Africa was where it was supposed to be. He’d packed and repacked his bag, cleaned and organized his weapons, ammunition and put a new strap on the knife sheath for his ankle, though he had had to make it larger for his boot.

Rogers, Falsworth and Dugan were off making final plans on how to find some kind of submarine with one of the merchant vessels in the area. Apparently there was a higher risk down here than elsewhere, but then again, he knew well the idea of starving out troops. An army was just a huge suck of resources and infantry required considerable amounts of food to be functional in any manner.

North Africa was mostly won, or at least the Germans and Italians had been beaten back to a safe ineffective distance after their 21st Panzer Division had been taken out and captured. Germany made the best technical advancements of any other country, and their success was considerable when using machinery. HYDRA was much the same way and was putting resources into just bulldozing opposition with advanced weaponry and heavy armoured vehicles.

He turned his head at the sound of laughter outside of the temporary barracks, which was a relatively safe warehouse storage building. It had once held packing boxes for goods to be shipped all over Europe and across the way to North America. Now it was being used to a headquarters and a temporary hospital for the infantry that was clearing out Italy of resistance. The problem was how little privacy there was with soldiers basically laying together on cots side-by-side with all of their gear fitted underneath.

However, the beaches were pristine and most of the men spent whatever time they weren’t running off to gamble, drink and play sports to lounge around in the warm waters of the Mediterranean. A few men were sleeping in their cots, but it was relatively empty and he was the only one worried about his tac-gear at this point. He was a soldier first, especially tonight when he planned a venture to Schmidt’s headquarters in the Alps. He needed to make a report, and this was the best kind of opportunity.

“Why am I not surprised to find you packing your bag when we have leave,” a male voice called from the doorway of the building. “You realize we could die at any time, and that means you should be living life to the fullest, right?”

Rumlow eyed Sergeant Barnes padding into the building and over to his cot. There was a smoothness to the man’s gait that was fast developing, a silence to Bucky’s step which he knew was a sort of natural progression. He wondered if Barnes was even aware of it, or if the good Sergeant was setting it all in motion on purpose.

“I forgot my bathing trucks back in New York,” he replied with a shrug.

Bucky poked at his compact and very loaded kit-bag. “Most of the guys are just going naked. The water’s nice and good for healing up cuts and dings, I hear.”

He was certainly not offended by male nudity; he was part of the biggest military gathering of forces, and he had experienced the military environment long enough in his own past to know that male flesh came in spades. One tended to just tune it out, though he had seen evidence of more than a few privates enjoying the privacy of beaches and the buddy-system to relieve sexual tension with each other. It was a fact of life; no women and high-risk situations meant that something had to give.

“Why aren’t you on the beach then, Barnes?”

“I came to find you,” Bucky pointed out easily. “And here you are exactly where I thought you’d be.”

“I’m not swimming naked in the Mediterranean with you, Barnes,” he replied dryly. “I have standards.”

The Sergeant feigned a wounded look and punched him in the shoulder. He allowed it without much of a fuss and tried to stuff more ammunition in his kit-bag. “Ouch, man, that really hurts. I’ve been told I’m quite the handsome gentleman. What’s got a bee up your ass?”

“I’m just getting ready for the mission so I’ll be good to go when the word comes from Cap,” he said simply.

He watched Barnes’ eyes light up, and he knew that was exactly the wrong person to bring up. Bucky was making it quite a habit meddling in Steve’s love life, which would have been hilarious if he wasn’t one of the men apparently being lined up to dance with Rogers. He knew he should have just ducked and covered. He didn’t because a part of him not wholly focused on the mission basked in the high regard of Rogers and squirreled away their brief private times together, which were supposed to be platonic but hedged on something more. The tension just made it better, but… he needed to concentrate on his mission. Steve was for someone else.

However, Barnes took a different track than the pointed grins and elbowing. Instead, the brunette just flopped down on his cot and gave him a very serious look. “Steve fancies you, you know.”

“So?”

“I’ve seen you two together sometimes,” the not-yet-Winter Soldier said with an obvious leading voice. “It’d probably do you both some good to get that out of your systems.”

Brock drew a breath and held it, asking for patience. He couldn’t tell Barnes that it was not a risk he’d take because he was almost entirely focused on his mission. “Look, Barnes, I…”

“He fancies you, and I haven’t seen him fancy many people,” Bucky said, cutting off his argument. “You and Agent Carter are the most recent ones.”

“He’s sort of with Agent Carter too,” he pointed out logically. “They had a date and everything.”

Bucky, not surprised or dissuaded, shrugged and gave him another measured serious look. He actually couldn’t believe he was being nagged to date or at least have sex with another man in his specialized unit. “And Agent Carter would probably understand that this far out and with so much pressure on Steve, he’s allowed companionship elsewhere.”

Now it was his turn to give Barnes a serious look. “Rogers is hardly the cheating type.”

“No, he’s not,” Bucky agreed easily. “Neither are you, it seems. You got a girl waiting for you back home?”

“No.”

“And you don’t mind sleeping in Steve’s arms either, huh?”

He didn’t like where this conversation was going, and it was suiting up to be a long one. “It’s just a sleeping arrangement. Two men to a tent.”

“And the barracks? You think I’m always asleep when you or he crawl into one another’s beds,” Bucky pointed out. Ah, that was a bit of a trend that probably shouldn’t continue, yeah. “Just… ask him out on something, Bones. He’s too much a gentleman to want to risk upsetting you.”

He frowned deeply. “And you think I’m into men?”

“I know you don’t seem to care one way or another actually.” He was given a challenging look, and he didn’t take it. “From what I can tell, you only care about what a person can do, not what happens to be between their legs. Man, woman, kid… you take them at face value.”

Brock shifted his footing where he stood, and he was surprised that Barnes had picked up so much about him. Then again, he was oddly close to Bucky, and he knew that Barnes came to him for their ‘serious’ talks most of the time. He respected that because they had had similar experiences in the POW work camp, but no matter how close he was to any of these men, he was still going to throw it all away for HYDRA’s victory. They were going to hate him soon enough, and he was looking forward to that. It was far less complicated.

He grunted and began to strap down the top of his pack tightly, giving his hands something to do. “And if I do this, will you leave me alone?”

“No, not one bit,” Barnes replied with a grin. “I want to see Steve happy, and if I have to divide his time between me and you, I guess I’ll tolerate it.”

“You should be canonized for sainthood for your sacrifices.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, but just a drink and nothing more.”

“Hit a homerun, Bones,” Bucky replied wickedly. “You probably don’t want to stop at first base anyway. Steve has told me he’s a terrible kisser.”

“And you haven’t taught him how to do it right?” It wasn’t that he suspected the pair were involved at all, but it seemed like something that Barnes would have gotten on to make certain that Steve was successful when ‘the right one’ came along.

Bucky just grinned big and open at him. “I tried, but he doesn’t apparently understand how to translate from instructions against a mirror to someone’s actual lips. One of my many failings with him.” And there came the sigh of long-suffering right on time. “Never taught him to dance right either.”

“You are seriously the worst best friend ever,” he replied dryly.

“Well, we can’t be good at everything,” Bucky replied with a wink. “So… that homerun…”

“Fuck off, Barnes,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I said a drink.”

“I’ll advise Steve to make the drink last.”

“You are the most meddlesome piece of shit in this entire unit,” he said with a shake of his head. He grabbed his loaded pack and pulled it off of the cot, stuffing it underneath and setting his hands on his hips. “Are you leaving now?”

James Barnes flashed him an award-winning smile for all of five seconds before it faded, and the brunette was suddenly glancing around to make certain that they were alone. He knew that look well enough, and he suddenly seized Bucky’s arm and hauled the man up from his cot. “Not here,” he growled.

He instead marched them across the desert camp and out to the rolling dunes with two mitts and a ball, feigning that they were going to engage in their own sports activity. No one questioned them, and they were within sight of the sentries, as he handed Barnes a mitt and the ball and made as if fussing with his own so that there was no need for them to separate just yet. Bucky stood there chewing the lower lip and watching him with hooded dark eyes.

“I can’t get drunk,” Barnes suddenly whispered to him. “I tried in London, but no matter how much I drank, I couldn’t do it. I’d get a little buzz and that was it.”

He grunted softly and glanced up at the not-Soldier. “That all?”

“My rations, Bones,” Barnes murmured with a hint of anxiety. “Most of the guys I’ve talked to were struggling to keep weight on in the marches through Reschenpass, and I’m _gaining_ weight on less than them.”

He lifted his gaze and allowed the corner of his lips to rise. “Cool it, Soldier,” he ordered softly. “We know you were experimented on like the others. You said you heard that little doctor muttering about… what was it again?”

“Vita-rays,” Barnes replied miserably.

“Right, whatever those are,” he said, brushing off that very important feature to apparently making a super-soldier. He wondered if that saturation was why Barnes hadn’t had some skin melt off. “You haven’t developed any strange powers, have you? Like… er… me?”

At that, James seemed to relax. “No, nothing like that. I just feel… cold inside, but it’s all natural like it’s always been there, which I know it hasn’t.”

“Maybe you’re turning into an ice cube?”

“Ha ha, very funny, but this is serious, Bones. The cold, the heat, the damp… nothing affects me. I don’t feel uncomfortable in it at all. It just _is_ , I suppose.” He could tell this matter was something that Barnes had been paying attention to the last few months, especially as his own powers developed and were put into play.

Brock was still fiddling with his baseball mitt to buy them time to not have to yell over towards each other. It also bought him time to consider his course of action. “You survived impossible odds, and we know they did dubious shit to us. Your skin hasn’t melted off, you’re a functioning Soldier, and you’re not a brainwashed tool…” _Yet._

“I have no secret urges to kill anyone, no,” Bucky said softly. “I’m just…”

“Getting better,” he assured the Sergeant. “These changes are minor, something you can hide, but also something that you can use to your advantage. You’re on the winning side, Barnes.”

He stepped away to put some distance between them, holding up his glove in an unspoken gesture to start them playing. Bucky threw him the ball, and he easily caught it then tossed it back lazily, keeping things casual between them. They played in silence for a few minutes, and he could see the tension bleeding out of Bucky again, which was good. The last thing he needed was a developing super-soldier to go off the deep-end and explore these powers before they were ready. Zola was going to want to perfect Barnes when time permitted.

“Falsworth said Carter knows about your abilities,” James said simply. “Did she tell Phillips?”

“Not so far,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulder, lifting his glove to catch the ball. He rolled it between his fingers, studying the stitching on it before lobbing it back at Barnes. “I don’t think she will; Steve was pretty convincing, and I made it clear I wasn’t interested in being shipped State-side to be poked and prodded.”

Bucky smiled at him. “It’d be a waste. You’re too good a soldier to lose. Why, I was thinking the other day that if we knew where that main HYDRA base was or got a tip off on where Schmidt would end up, you could blink in and assassinate him.”

Brock grinned, but no one had to know that such a thing was possible. “Or Hitler.”

Barnes froze and stared at him. “You know that between those two actions, the war would be over, right?”

He shrugged his shoulders and caught the ball thrown his way. “Maybe, cut off one head of leadership, I bet’cha two more pop up. Hitler has enough underlings just waiting for the chance, right?” Too bad Hitler was getting more and more paranoid if the history books he had read were on the mark.

“But we’d be that much closer to being able to go home,” Bucky said, missing a catch and having to chase after the ball. “There’d just be the Japs to take care of.”

Rumlow nodded his head, saying little one way or the other. He knew from history that Hitler would suffer two assassination attempts internally, both failed, and he knew that Schmidt would somehow self-destruct on the Valkyrie, though no one actually knew how. It was one of the great mysteries of HYDRA lore, but the Red Skull had taken Captain America down in his own way too.

“Either way, there are enough of those SS assholes for Hitlers and the HYDRA corps for Schmidt to make life uncomfortable,” he drawled. “We take out their bases and the Allies finish mobilizing, and I’m sure that the first push will be a big one for us all.”

“I hope we’re in on that first assault,” Barnes called and threw the ball to him. It was dead on accurate. “Where do you think it will be?”

“France probably,” he said. “We’ve got Italy mostly, and the French are supposed to be an Allied force.”

“Yeah, just occupied,” Bucky said with a head shake.

Everyone mocked the French for how that country had just collapsed into German occupation. He suspected there had been some HYDRA involvement, covert and secretive to test out forces and the loyalty of troops. Schmidt had to know the quality of soldier before the man had been willing to break away from the Nazi alliance.

“Maybe they’ll fire a bullet this time around,” he remarked.

“Dum Dum would eat that up,” Barnes replied with a laugh. “He’s endlessly on how the French didn’t fire a single shot.”

Rumlow spied a man walking out of the camp, and he noted the long-gaited strides. That was definitely Rogers, no doubt finally over with all of the meetings. He lifted a hand and caught the ball again, tossing it back without looking much. His eyes were on the approaching Captain, and it was eerie how silent Barnes could get in even in the hot desert sands.

“Hit a homerun, will you?”

He blinked and lowered his eyes when a small package was tucked into his pocket, and he immediately recognized it as a condom. He growled and immediately took a swing at Bucky, who laughed and danced away. “You are such an _asshole_!”

He followed and threw his mitt at Barnes, hitting the other man in the shoulder. Steve was gaining ground on them, but they still ended up jumping on each other and wrestling before the blond arrived with a sudden air of exasperation at their antics. It was all childish games, though Barnes was going to a steady shade of red while in his tight headlock.

He was tapped on the elbow, and he kneed Barnes’ in the kidney anyway. There was another harder slap against his elbow.

“Brock, stop choking the life out of Bucky,” Steve said with fatherly tone.

“Yeah well, you can’t say he doesn’t deserve it,” he replied, but he did relent on his grip and let Bucky roll away from him gasping. He lounged on the sand and smirked up at Rogers. “Come to play some catch with us, Cap?”

“As if Steve knows how to pitch,” came the call from Barnes.

Rumlow shot the smart-ass a glare, which only earned a grin in return. “He’s all about catching, is he?”

“Guys, I’m right here, and I do understand innuendos,” Steve remarked with growing exasperation. “This is just another scene where I wonder why I leave you two alone in the first place. You’re always in trouble, the pair of you.”

“Feeling left out, Mr. Responsibility?” Bucky asked.

“Maybe a little,” Steve conceded with a smile. Duty came first for the guy, and they all knew that.

He pushed himself to his feet and dusted off his fatigues, his dogtags swinging as he bent to try to dislodge the sand in the various folds of material. He stood and found Barnes leaning an elbow on Steve’s shoulder (looked like a stretch) leering at him,and Steve watching him with a hint of a smile, no doubt amused by their antics.

“You got orders, Cap?” He decided to take the easy track to open conversation.

“The operation is a go as soon as the designated merchant vessel arrives. I’ll be on it when it leaves,” Steve said with a nod. “The rest of us will be waiting to join me after the vessel sinks.”

He could see Barnes stiffen against Steve’s shoulder. “How long can you hold your breath, Rogers?”

Steve nudged Bucky but kept eyes on him. “I haven’t figured out the limits of it yet, but this will be a test for that too.”

“I feel like there are a few flaws to this plan,” Rumlow said dryly. “Shouldn’t we measure your lung capacity before we sink the ship you’re on?”

“You should take Bones with you,” Bucky said, but it was clearly for logical reasons and not to pair them off again. “If things go wrong, he can blink you both to the surface.”

Rogers chuckled. “Except I don’t think Brock has the same lung capacity as I do.” A pause. “No offense intended.”

“None taken,” Rumlow replied. “Besides, I don’t know if my ability works in water. It’s hard to get depth perception down there and distance measurement, which is what I need to do it successfully.”

There was a shadow that passed over Barnes’ face, but it was those small ones that came here and again to every man. He knew that Bucky feared that Steve would get into a situation where the Captain wouldn’t be able to escape. He had seen that look on many men, but he couldn’t say that he had ever had the same concerns about someone that deeply before. He wasn’t planning on starting now either. Still Barnes had to appear gamely and enthusiastic, to believe in Steve and let Rogers be a soldier willing to take the same risks as most men.

The moment that a man like Barnes stopped believing in Rogers was the day that Hell froze over or the poor bastard couldn’t remember Steve in the first place. Still, he had noted that shadows more and more lately, and they certainly offset some of Bucky’s sometimes forced enthusiasm for a situation. Like him, the great Bucky Barnes was a fabulous actor.

Steve looked between the pair of them and slipped an arm across the middle of Bucky’s back. “You don’t need to mother hen me, Buck. I can do this.”

“Yeah, mud hen,” he chirped with a razor grin. “Cluck after Rogers in front of all the Commandos, I dare you.”

Barnes had the good sense to glare between the pair of them and throw hands up in the air with all the necessary dramatic insinuation. “You two are reckless. I am _not_ going to be the one to put you two idiots in the dirt. I _refuse_.” There was just enough seriousness to be a warning to them both.

“Buck…”

“Cluck, cluck, cluck,” he sounded with a vague wave of his elbows and received a baseball mitt right in the face for his efforts. He rubbed his nose in the face of Barnes’ glare.

However, he knew better than the taunt Bucky into action. He knew it, but it was difficult to avoid the opportunity to push at the guy’s insecurities. They were right _there_ , but Barnes was far more witty now than the few times he had come to meet the Winter Soldier variety.

No, Bucky bent and retrieved the mitt on the sand and slapped it against Steve’s chest. “Well, I’ve got some nurses who promised me a dance,” the brunette said airily. “You two play ball nicely, won’t you? A home run will do you both some good.”

Rumlow frowned and would have thrown his mitt at the back of Barnes’ retreating head, but he knew Rogers would pick up on that kind of obvious retaliation. As it was, Steve was throwing him suspicious looks, and he sighed heavily as Bucky left them on their own with two mitts and a ball but more so themselves.

He tucked his mitt under his left arm, trapping the ball up there too as he peered at Rogers. “So… did you want to get a drink with me? I’m owed my monthly alcohol in my military rations.”

Steve smiled but was still clearly suspicious. “Just you and I?”

“Well, you never know when the rest of the team is going to show up like a bunch of loud-mouthed assholes, but we can hope,” he replied sardonically. He tucked his hands into his pockets in an attempt to preserve what cool and calm appearance he could.

There was definitely sand in his ass crack from rolling around beating on Barnes. What an itch to his ass that guy was.

Steve was taking the time to consider things from all angles, which he was certain was all purposeful for some reason or another. Then, before he could react, Rogers was slinging an arm across the back of his shoulders and propelling him down the hill towards camp again. He followed because tripping and rolling was not in the cards for him.

“Are they actually giving out the prearranged allotment here?” Steve, of course, saw little reason to drink. He also suspected officers were given a little more than the rest of them.

“This is a port city, so I expect someone has alcohol,” he pointed out.

“Maybe we should do that then,” Steve replied thoughtfully, arm still a warm solid weight across his shoulders. “Let’s find a public house around town.”

Now this was definitely something akin to a date, and he cast a look to Steve. The man was utterly serious about it, and he sighed shaking his head. “Sometimes I think you and Barnes inhabit the same brain space.”

“Oh well, that’s because Bucky needs to borrow mine now and again,” Steve replied cheekily.

“So this was actually all your idea and you set him up to be your wingman and convince me to go on a date with you?” Rumlow smirked at the way that Steve’s face suddenly flushed.

“No, that’s not it at…” Rogers trailed off before smiling and laughing, hauling him down the rest of the hill at a faster pace. He had to run to keep up, but there was something far too innocent and freed about that laughter. It was an honest laugh he realized.

How many of those had he ever heard before he had come here to this time?

Brock grinned and shoved his elbow into Steve’s side, disentangling himself from the bigger man for a moment before Rogers just caught him up again and literally lifted him off the ground and threw his weight up and over Steve’s muscled shoulder. He kicked his legs as he was reduced to laughing to himself between swearing colourfully at Steve who just kept running right into the army base.

It was very unbecoming behaviour for a man people had come to see as a legend already, a step above regular soldiers. Yet, Steve was very much human, and he felt the rare show of actual friendly camaraderie that the super-soldier was reduced to. Even if it was at his own expense.

Of course, Steve was into this a bit too much and managed to pace Barnes who was grinning like the world’s biggest idiot. Rumlow snarled and flapped his arms like chicken wings as they passed yelling, “cluck, cluck, mud hen.”

Steve ran him beyond the provision storehouse and ducked behind it, only then finally setting him on his feet again. The childish grin bled years off of Rogers’ features, and he felt a horrible flare of liking for this man who was his Captain. He still huffed all the same, dusting at his clothing primly.

“Well, now that my pride is successfully rumpled,” he pointed out, though a smile still tugged at the corner of his lips.

“I didn’t carry you bridal style,” Steve pointed out helpfully.

“No, that was definitely rape-pillage-burn viking style,” he replied with a shake of his head. He still enjoyed the flush that flared against on Steve’s cheeks in response.

“Are we still going for that drink?”

Rumlow sighed and shoved at Steve’s shoulder as he turned away. “What the hell,” he replied. “At least I know if I pass out, you can carry me back to my cot. I just need to return the gloves back to supplies.”

The super-soldier practically radiated pleasure as they walked companionably to supplies and off to get their drink. The fact that they meandered and took their time to get anywhere was no one’s business but their own.

*****

He knew this place. It came out of the static like a ship appearing in a snowstorm. One minute it wasn’t there and the next a hint of it came into being. The snap and fuzziness of the blue static pulled back, receding like a tide until the small double story house stood alone in a sea of black with the occasional tendril of blue energy lancing through the darkness like lightning.

Brock stood staring up at the darkened house of his childhood, and he didn’t want to go inside. There was a gentle insistent tugging behind at his hips as if that could propel him forward, but he resisted as his eyes roamed over the place where he had spent nine miserable years of his life before finally being able to escape because of that single knock on the door and the police officer and social worker on the doorstep.

The house was the same here though. It was painted white, and it was new enough to be believable as a happy residence. The trim around the windows and doors was a green that was probably more vivid than it had ever been in life. The stairs leading up to the front door were new, solid and at the corners were empty planters that were no doubt supposed to have summer flowers when that time of year arrived.

There was no season. There wasn’t even any indication as to the time of day or night. It was just the house and him.

Suddenly, there was a high-pitched wail from inside, and it pressed him to take the six stairs to the landing in front of the door two at a time. He was inside a moment later, simply passing through the door with a flash of blue light behind his eyes, and he was standing in the clean well-kept living room. Everything was the same from the pictures on the wall to the couches to the wood fire-stove in the one corner.

Rumlow stood silent and unhappy in the entrance way to the living room and stared in utter disgust at the soft wailing in the bassinet next to the love seat. It was not the newborn that particularly bothered him, though he admitted that the cry was annoying but also moved something inside of him uncomfortably. It drew him closer until he was looking down at the red newborn who was waving a small fist indignantly in the air.

It was him. Nothing in the room had to tell him that wasn’t true. He was small, plump and with dusting of dark hair. No teeth to speak of, mostly chubby legs and arms, but it was the tiny fingers and toes that drew him. They were very useless, not even able to cling to much of anything, not even able to move the blanket, nothing like the fingers and toes that he owned now. So small and weak and easily dispatched.

He turned his head just enough to spot the man standing in the living room entrance way, flicking his eyes over the military camouflage garb and the personal kit-pack that every soldier came home with one way or another. Strong and lean and powerful, the strawberry blond soldier stepped into the room with determination, dropping the pack on the loveseat and immediately leaning over to peer into the bassinet.

Pierce had been very handsome in youth, he observed as he stood just slightly to the side. The set of the chin, the rise and fall of the shoulders and those hands… those were the man’s physical legacy to him. And those hands never hesitated to reach in and scoop up the little bundle of newborn like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It felt like he was intruding on something very private. The way that Pierce tucked the bundle between powerful sun-tanned arms and rocked side-to-side in a full body motion was everything that a father should do. There was pride, hunger and pleasure flickering across Pierce’s young face, even as the baby settled to soft mewling noises.

“That’s a boy,” Alexander whispered. “You’ll have something to cry about soon enough, but not now. What name did you settle on?”

“Brock.” The name came whispered on the wind with a crackle of energy, but the owner didn’t appear in the room with them.

“A strong name. I like it,” Pierce replied, still rocking the infant that was fussing quietly. “I don’t see what the problem is; he’s barely fussing.”

“He responds well to you,” the female voice said, ending with a soft musical tittering.

“Of course he does,” Pierce said with a smile. “I’m his father. He’ll grow and I’ll show him the world. First things first…”

Pierce sat down on the loveseat and cradled his newborn self, plucking the blanket until small bare feet kicked out. Almost immediately, Alexander curled a hand around one, stroking a thumb over tiny curling toes. It was with reverent familiarity that he almost looked away, but he couldn’t. That was the first sign any man had ever cared for him, that simple gesture of exploration and, dare he think it, love. Fingers stroked over small soft newborn skin.

Suddenly, his newborn self made a soft noise and then went very still, the kind stillness that a child learned quickly to avoid attention being drawn. It wasn’t anything that a newborn knew, but Pierce grasped a small hand and plied tiny fingers, stroking and counting each one.

The face that turned up from the baby was no longer young, but the face of a man who had seen and done much in the years between wearing that uniform and giving it up for an expensive suit and diplomatic motions. Pierce’s eyes were a fiery blue, reminiscent of the flare of the Tesseract and had the ability to call him in much the same way.

“Your doubts have no place in a mission, Brock,” Alexander said. “Set them aside.”

He stiffened and frowned. “I have no doubts on the mission.”

Pierce stared at him a long moment and then lifted the newborn up to rest against the man’s shoulder, one arm supporting the baby’s diapered backside and the other stroking possessively over the small unscarred skin of the newborn’s back. “My, my, are your personal feelings clouding your judgement? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“That’s rich, given your current position,” he replied a bit harsher than he would have ever used on the Secretary before.

“I was always ever fond of you,” Alexander admitted with a charming smile. “A son, illegitimate, but a son all the same. Regardless of my pride, I never interfered openly with your upbringing.” That smile became razor sharp. “I set my personal feelings aside. I needed a strong boy, not a coddled weak baby. I needed a man forged out of bad conditions, but… you’re young, Brock.”

He frowned and slowly moved over to shove the kit-pack on the floor so that he could take the seat next to Pierce. He folded his hands in his lap and tried not to look over at the chubby kicking legs and the way that the Secretary was stroking those tiny feet again with a thumb.

Why did he come here when he needed to be set back on the path? It wasn’t like his mission didn’t have a designed and manageable end. It was just…

“You said Rogers was and always will be the most important part of this,” he said gruffly. “On his blood we’re going to build an army for HYDRA.”

“But…?”

But what? Brock didn’t actually need the time to consider it. He knew already, though for the last few months he had easily denied it because there was no room for personal feelings on a mission like the one he had undertaken. He was ruthless; he was driven; he was going to serve HYDRA until his death.

The difference to his work with HYDRA in the time he had come from was that the environment was something else entirely. He was at war, in a war, fighting with a small group of men who had grown close, grown intimate of their knowledge of one another, had formed bonds of brotherhood that only the horrors and extremes of war could bring about. They fought and served together, worked together, relied on one another’s skills for survival of all. Beyond the mission for HYDRA, he was a Howling Commando, hand picked by Captain America and employed in special operations with the other men of the platoon.

“It’s Rogers,” he finally settled for. “He’s… something else. Nothing and everything like the interviews said.”

“Are you emotionally compromised, Brock?” Pierce’s tone held the illusion of a man willing to listen to all of his problems.

Rumlow never trusted anyone enough to lay them on the line, even in a phantom representation of his father. He made the mistake of turning his head to observe the Secretary next to him and found his father perfectly comfortable stroking the newborn’s cheek as the baby gave a yawn and settled into sleep, comfortable, safe and warm. He only remembered one of those three later in life.

“No, the mission will be completed,” he stated. “Too much is at stake.”

“True,” Alexander agreed. “Have you considered what you’re going to feel when they realize the full extent of your betrayal? What Rogers will feel when he realizes you’ve lead him on?”

“I haven’t lead him on,” Brock snapped.

The Secretary chuckled knowingly, and he was caught in the trap with no escape. “No, I suppose you haven’t. If you feel something for him, you may as well get it out of your system because come the chosen date, he’s going to want nothing to do with you.”

He wasn’t certain if those were Pierce’s real words or something reflected out of him that just happened to be coming out of the Secretary’s mouth. He still snarled with a curl of his lip, but his eyes were fixed across the room so he didn’t have to see the way that PIerce was fussing with the blanket to smooth it out again. He was not emotionally compromised, he told himself. There was glitch in the plan which he had planned for, and he had never cared much for the opinion of others regarding himself. He knew that his path was set and that no one could tell him that his job wasn’t accurate, certain and dynamic. He was changing the world. He was helping to build something better for everyone and especially the children living in adverse living arrangements.

Steve Rogers was the goal so that HYDRA provided the basis for super-soldiers to uphold the principle of freedom. They would be the front line that could administer the justice necessary so men, women and especially children could live their lives free and happy. Steve would want that, he knew, but the man was not educated on the precepts of just what HYDRA was trying to do. That would come in time.

Finally, in the intervening silence, Brock looked over at Alexander next to him. “I don’t need him or anyone else. The mission will be completed June 6, 1944,” he said firmly. “The Commandos will be like everyone else in their options: fall in line or die.”

Pierce chuckled, adjusting a baby bottle that hadn’t been there a moment before. Tiny hands curled and uncurled as soft suckling noises filled the house. “You are alone.”

Rumlow breathed out heavily through his nose. “I’ve been alone since she died. It’s something you get used to, and it builds independence and self-reliance.”

“But it’s nice to have friends, isn’t it?”

He gritted his teeth. “It’s an illusion, just as you are here with me now. It’s not real. You only can rely on the strength you yourself have to get the job done.”

Pierce was smiling at him again, all charm and handsome appearance. “You’re not going to attract a woman that way, Brock. You can’t have children without one, I remind you.”

He shook his head, refusing to rise to the bait of this topic because in the face of all that he still had to do, all the information and people he was keeping track of, a woman and children was the last thing on his mind. He’d have time for that kind of bullshit when the war was one and HYDRA had doled out the freedom to the world against freedom itself.

Maybe it was clear that he wasn’t going to comment because Pierce shifted the tiny bundle higher in the crook of the man’s arm, still nursing the child with a bottle. He didn’t spend the time to wonder why the liquid being fed had a distinct blue quality to it, swirling in the white milk. It was not an answer that he wanted to consider. Pierce didn’t seem concerned, but then again, why would his father? Alexander Pierce no longer existed.

“You still have doubts about Schmidt, is it?”

“He’s a good leader, and he’s good at leading those of blind devotion, but I don’t think he has the ability to convert those important to our causes expansion into it,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, eyeing the nursing newborn. Did they always look so content? “I also suspect that he’s out as much for himself as he is for HYDRA.”

Pierce smiled fondly down at the baby, fatherly pride on display. “And if he betrays you?”

“I’ll kill him,” Brock said coldly. “I will take him in between time and space and leave him there, and I’ll push Zola in charge. He’s proven he can lead.”

“Ah yes, but his exploits at this point in time are not devoted to leadership,” Alexander reflected. “I wonder if you can go forward in time for longer than a few seconds.”

Rumlow shrugged in what he hoped was a casual way because the question had risen in his mind a few times. He doubted it would work though, since the future was not fixed and constantly changing. He wouldn’t even know where to go or how to get there, wouldn’t even know who or what he was looking for. It was better to work with what he had now and be content with changing the world with Schmidt at the head for the time being. He would never lead; it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to be hands on.

“I wouldn’t try it unless the need was desperate,” he finally replied. “I could get lost if I went too far forward into a future that doesn’t exist.”

Pierce nodded wordlessly and removed the bottle from the baby’s mouth, setting it aside, and his eyes were drawn to how Alexander lifted the infant to a shoulder and patted the newborn’s back. He had seen that before, but it felt very strange watching the Secretary do so in military garb. Very much out of place, but he couldn’t look away either.

“Did you… do any of this back in the day?” It was stupid to ask, but it was out of his mouth regardless.

Alexander looked at him and smiled knowingly. “Twice,” he replied. “Once when you were only four days old, and another time when you were eight weeks.”

“Why?”

“Don’t compromise yourself,” Pierce reminded pointedly. “However, the first time was to see you. I was very curious, and you apparently fussed from the get-go. You were just like this, but… you didn’t fuss much with me.”

Rumlow forged on despite his better judgement. “And the second time?”

“Your mother asked me to come and see you,” Alexander said quietly, patting the newborn’s back despite the soft burp that sounded. “She was in a bad way, and you fussed constantly night and day.” There was something unspoken in the heavy poignant pause. “I picked you up just like this, rubbed your back and within a few minutes, you were asleep.”

A part of him knew the story to be true, and so he didn’t ask for more details. He didn’t want them, not even as Pierce rose from the couch and settled the quiet newborn back into the bassinet. Between one blink and the next, Alexander was gone. Two breaths later, the newborn began a fussy mewling cry, and he sat silent listening to the annoying noise rise higher and higher.

“Shut the hell up,” he finally snapped. “You’re alone, and you better get used to it.” The shrill cry continued to grate on him until…

Brock’s eyes snapped open when the mattress under him dipped with a weight behind him, and he knew without having to turn over that Steve had made the trek from one side of the room to the other. A large warm arm draped down his shoulders as the super-soldier’s chest came to press against his bare back, and there was a soft _shhh_ in his ear.

He forced his shoulders to release some of the tension from both the dream that wasn’t entirely a dream and being awakened suddenly. He shifted on the bed not made for two grown men, pressing himself closer to the cold uniform wall, but Steve’s arm tightened and drew him back in the limited space that could be afforded. He sighed when Steve’s fingers carded through his sweat-damp hair.

“It was just a dream, Brock,” Steve whispered across his earlobe. “It’s okay, come back now.”

It was laughable how much of a dream that was not, but no one could understand. There were things no one was supposed to understand, especially not now. If he told people exactly what he was about, he’d be committed to an institute and probably giving the old eye jab to make him nice and quiet.

Instead, he shifted in Steve’s hold and raised a hand up to curl his fingers around the strong forearm across his chest. “Yeah, just a bad dream.”

“Do you want to talk about it,” Rogers offered. The warm concern was not feigned he knew. It was all honesty, and here he was pulling strings on everyone. All for peace. “I’ll listen if you do.”

Brock remained silent for awhile, just soaking in the warmth of Steve’s body around his. “Is there… do you ever falter in your goals, like doubt yourself?”

“Not so much,” Steve replied softly. “If I doubt myself, I’m not looking forward to a solution on how to get what needs to be done in the now and the future. Sometimes when I’m alone I wonder if I can, but then I look at the strength of the men around me, and I don’t doubt anymore.”

He sighed and stroked his fingers along Steve’s forearm, drinking in the words and reflecting on them. “Men like us are alone,” he murmured. “You being the only living super-soldier and me being… what I am.”

“Here, turn over,” Steve murmured and nudged and poked and pressed him until he relented to the request.

Rumlow turned over slowly, from one side to the other until he was facing Steve in the darkness of the private officer’s room assigned to Rogers. He reached out and plucked at Steve’s tags, fingering along the warm metal and trying to discern the lettering that was imprinted on them. All the while, Rogers was subtly pulling him in until their thighs and stomachs were pressed together, and he didn’t care enough to resist.

“Brock.”

“I have nothing, Steve,” he finally uttered in the dark, his thumb stroking over the tag in his grip. “If I die, if I don’t have the strength to see this through, I do so alone. I’m fine with that, but I just… don’t want to kick it until I have done what I set out to do.” It wasn’t that he doubted, not particularly, but Pierce reminded him that his greatest strength was his ruthlessness and his ability to operate alone. “I can’t fail.”

Steve’s fingers, at first, combed through his hair and then scratched lightly down the back of his neck. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you voice any doubts. You’re so strong, and you’re a driven man. We all have our objectives, and together we can successfully see them through. I’m proud to serve with you.”

It was all the right words meant for someone without a secret agenda, but they still assured him. His fingers released the dog tag and lifted to cup the side of Steve’s neck. “And I’m proud to serve with you, Rogers,” he murmured with honesty. “You are something else. You make a man, even in war, want to be his best.”

“That’s some compliment,” Steve whispered, clearly touched by his words.

“Ah well, how often do you actually get a pat on the ass,” he asked with a rakish grin. “We are… very different, Steve. A step above the others.”

There was a small silence before he felt Steve’s forehead come to rest against his still clammy one. “No, Brock. Every man who came into this war voluntarily on all sides of the fronts in all the armies in this war… we all are a step above the men who decided to stay home. We are fighting for freedom, fighting because we believe it requires sacrifice to end the tyranny that started this war.”

It was amazing how those words rang true to him, and it was equally thrilling on how close their loyalties ran in the same direction. If only he could find the right words to make Steve see that HYDRA was going to bring about a peace that would be long-lasting, that the men who remained back in their countries with only false excuses would get their own in the end. Brave men laying down their lives would have redemption and the world would know peace in their lifetime.

Yet, he couldn’t find the right words. The moment passed him by with the weight of Steve’s words still causing his blood to thrum delightfully through his veins. “You might want to get up and write that one down. It’s a keeper,” he said as his fingers found the warm metal tags at Steve’s chest and tugged on them.

He looked up through the dark, but he was unable to read Rogers’ expression. Somehow he knew what it was all the same. Somehow they were grinning like idiots at each other, boyish and hidden in the dark whispering their secrets at each other. If anyone else knew, they would be teased relentlessly.

_“...you may as well get it out of your system…”_

Brock leaned up the distance between them and pressed his lips to Steve’s, uncaring how reckless it was. He was met with initial surprise before the blond softened under his lips and attempted to kiss him back, but it was… well, it was pretty terrible once he deepened things.

He ended up pulling away with a snort of laughter and rolling onto his back, his hand patting Steve on the chest before his fingers tangled in the chain. Then this all seemed so absurdly funny that he just had to laugh, the kind of laugh that bridged on both freedom and insanity, deep from his belly and sounding around the room. Steve didn’t join in, but it also didn’t matter to him as he was left in stitches of laughter of his own design at how stupid he was being.

As abruptly as it started, he managed to get a hold of himself again and the amusement died down. He hummed a soft sound instead as Steve’s large calloused fingers passed down his chest to grasp his own dog-tags. It was a strange sort of intimacy to do so; they were the only identification to mark them if they fell in combat. Otherwise, they were just face-down dead men people would just have to step over without further thought.

“In the mess hall, there were a group of men that I played some cards with,” Steve uttered softly, as if this topic was very private. “All the men were friends from the same town, and in order to show their loyalty for each other as brothers, they exchanged their tags with one another.”

Rumlow tightened his grip on the chain of Steve’s dog-tags, forcing the larger man to follow or risk breaking the chain. Their noses brushed in the dark as the super-soldier came to have lay on his chest. “Not yet, Rogers.”

“But someday?”

“Someday,” he softly agreed.

Soldiers didn’t exchange their dog-tags because they were friends; they exchanged them because they were lovers by and large. By carrying another man’s tags into combat, they were never alone and knew that theirs was a deep if fleeting commitment. He couldn’t make that commitment to anyone, and by the time he might be ready and free to do so, Rogers wouldn’t be in any position or want to do so. It was better that they not risk it.

His fingers released the chain around Rogers’ neck and then curled around to stroke down the length of Steve’s back. In reply, he felt fingers stroke down his arm and then his ribs. They lay quiet and enjoying the simplicity of touch with no expectations that drained tension of their missions and duties and mortality out of them. With all the terrible things they had done and all that they would do, this connection was entirely necessary to make them both remember in the end they were still one thing over everything else:

They were human.

*****

**Austrian Alps HYDRA Base - March 1944**   


“June 6, 1944.”

“Where,” Schmidt asked without looking up from studying a map of Eastern Europe.

“Normandy beaches in France,” Rumlow replied, his hands folded behind his back as he watched the Skull move over to regard that aspect. “Five sections of beach, three armies making a single run up. It’s the single largest seaborne invasion of the time, and while it will be a massacre, it will also allow the Allies to get a toe-hold to expand from.”

He watched Schmidt’s gaze sweep along the coastline, a gloved hand smoothing at the thick paper. For all of his unease that the Red Skull ruling the world, he would give it to Schmidt that the man was a brilliant tactician. The pins still marked the various major cities in Eastern Europe, but he was giving Schmidt the advantage of sliding HYDRA into the greatest assault with full know how on what to expect, time of launch and how to repel the invaders. Some would consider this information as a way to glorify himself as the greatest spy that ever lived, but for him, it was less about glory and more about crushing the opposition with as little loss of life as possible. They were going to need those men to maintain the world after all.

“Show me,” Schmidt finally uttered, non-existent nose almost against the paper. He had a feeling that Johann had already guessed to where but only wanted verification.

Rumlow moved over to the other side of the man, leaning over the British Isles and taking up six blue pins. He stabbed one in each of the five Normandy beach launch locations and then one down inland at Caen Canal. He placed a finger on each pin to name the beaches as they were, “Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno, and Sword beaches.”

“And this one?” Schmidt regarded the pin at Caen Canal very intently.

“There are two bridges over the River Orne and Caen Canal respectively,” he said with a small shrug of his shoulders. “Those bridges are taken by the British at 00:16 and never reclaimed. It allows a blockage of the Panzer Division from sweeping down onto the beaches.”

He made no particular suggestion for Schmidt to take special notice, though he was very aware that keeping the Germans from easily bring their tanks and artillery down Sword beach was a blow. He had studied this war extensively before he had come here, so he knew the importance of bridges in lands riddled with rivers.

He instead pointed back at the beaches, pointing to Utah and Omaha. “The Americas take those, and Rogers will be charging up Omaha.” And that was the prize. Still he carried on and pointed at the other three. “The British will take these three, assisted by the Canadian infantry and Australian air support.”

“Are all five taken,” Schmidt asked softly, surveying the sheer amount of land. “Hitler ordered considerable defenses installed along the coastline from Spain to Norway, and he has been expecting attack for a while now.”

Brock flicked the pins at Gold and Juno beaches. “British and Canadians meet their objectives more than any other infantry. The other beach assaults are not a complete failure, but they don’t push inland far enough to be considered successes either.”

Johann stood up and remained silent, contemplating whatever it was that the leader of HYDRA could. He suspected that Schmidt was considering both the validity of his words and the necessary effort of moving HYDRA units into that area to support the Germans. They were no longer allies but neither were they enemies, and both sides accepted one another in terms of combat as support. After all, Hitler couldn’t know that the soldiers killed in Azzano hadn’t been done in by the Americans in the area.

He turned his head slightly at the soft pull of the Tesseract on the other side of the room. She had been quiet until that moment, but he had no plans on visiting Her either. The further they were apart, the less distraction that he found himself suffering from. Right now, this was the most important report he could give, even if he knew it would all be verified by Schmidt.

His attention drew back to the map as the Red Skull muttered softly in German, tapping points on the map before finally turning to look at him. Their gazes met and again, there was the reasonable distrust between them. Yet, they still required the help of each other, and thus their truce and suspicion of what the other was up to was held at bay.

“Where will _you_ be in this beach attack?”

They both knew it was obvious. “I’ll be making the run up Omaha beach with Captain Rogers. Barnes will come with us, I’m sure. The rest of the Commandos will be assigned to Utah beach.”

Schmidt nodded slowly. “And in this chaos you will do as you promised?”

“You show me where the cage is, and I’ll drop Rogers right into it. After that, it’s up to you to contain him,” he drawled with most confidence than he felt. It would be easy to grab Steve and transport; it would be far more difficult to leave.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Johann said, razor smile cutting across the man’s red face. “I want all of these Commandos. Can you deliver?”

Brock kept his face impassive as he considered. He had never transported seven people before, and he had to be extremely careful with timing or who knows what would happen if he saw himself. Could it even happen? Taking Falsworth had been difficult and taxing, and he expected he was going to need a long sleep after seven.

He set his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I’ll deliver.”

“Do that, and I will consider you extraordinary,” Schmidt said coolly. “And after I have them all and the Allies repelled, we will work in earnest on the Valkyrie. Nothing shall stand in our way.”

Rumlow exhaled the breath he had been holding, pleased. “Hail HYDRA.”

Johann Schmidt clapped him on the shoulders, which was very odd. It was so fatherly that it made his skin crawl as he stared into those cold eyes. “Hail HYDRA, Corporal. You and I will change not just the world but those beyond our own.” He nodded slightly. “You and I. You and I.”

He watched Schmidt withdrawal to go back to regarding the map. Why were the hairs on the back of his neck raised?

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The River Orne & Caen Canal were two of the most important bridges on D-Day, and they was later renamed "Pegasus Bridge" for the British airborne troops who took them. Without taking these bridges intact, there was a strong possibility that D-Day may have had a very different ending as the German Panzer Division could sweep through the Allies and throw them back into the ocean.
> 
> PS - I still love writing Pierce. He'll be back.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who took the time to read my work and I appreciate any comments or kudos that I receive. It is always great motivation to crack out more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have to apologize for the lateness of this chapter. For some reason, I had it in my head that I now updated every 19th, not the 9th. This was actually planned and ready to go for that time, so I have no idea what changed my mind on when I was supposed to post. I'm going to go ahead and blame the Christmas season as my excuse.
> 
> Right, so this chapter is basically using information from the comics. I haven't read them, but I improvised on how to make it work.

*****  
**Somewhere in the Mediterranean – March 1944**  


The SS Kathleen was sinking, tilting to the port side where she had been struck and no doubt a hole blown in her below decks. The clear weather and the heavy set of her belly in the water indicated that she had been full of precious supplies for the Italian campaign. That had been the ruse and the point, to make the SS Kathleen a prime target for the _Leviathan_ to target, the kind of ship that had previously been hit hard by that U-boat.

The air was heavy with the smell of ozone, and he knew that at least two of their meager crew were dead, thrown against the bulkheads which had not been protected against the surge of electricity. The seas around the sinking ship had two crew members treading water as a life raft was lowered hurriedly by those who were still onboard. Everyone needed to get into the warm waters or risk going down with the ship.

Steve stood looking out in search of a dark shape that would indicate that the _Leviathan_ was either circling or surfacing to check for survivors. That surfacing was his one and only opportunity to get on board and take on the crew to take the submarine for the SSR. His eyes swept back and forth before he was forced to leave his position on the dipping port side to haul himself to the starport.

He suspected that he had suffered bruised ribs from being thrown against the side of the craft after impact. He had felt the momentary sweep of electricity through him, but it had thankfully been fast dissipating by the time he had hit. He soothed himself with the notion that the thunder lance torpedoes had a very limited shock wave effect and unless one was close to something metal for impact, they seemed to avoid damage.

Of course, the SS Kathleen had been covered in rubber mats, so there was no way to be electrocuted through the floor. He suspected that was how most of the other crews had been killed. Rubber had worked better than anyone expected, and he would make the suggestion that all ships active and potentially under fire from this class of torpedo be similarly equipped.

_There._

A dark shape was rising from the crystal depths of the Mediterranean fifty meters from the listing ship. He clambered over the side and immediately shoved off into a dive far enough out that the pull of the SS Kathleen wouldn’t draw him backwards as water was sucked into her filling decks. The water was warm when he hit, making it easy to cut through the waves as he swam fast and hard for the rising submarine. He knew that he had to make it before any crew member opened the porthole to investigate signs of survivors in the waters.

He reached the dark grey metal submarine as it finished rising from the water, gripping onto the steel ladder attached to the side to which he had had the good fortune of swimming to. The U-boat rose with the loud displacement of water, and Steve scampered up the ladder to the main body of the submarine and pressed himself against the conning tower where he was opposite to the sinking Kathleen.

He shifted the round reinforced steel buckler that Stark had provided him, adjusting the strap. He wasn’t able to bring his vibranium shield with him because of the narrow hallways in known German submarines, and while the forty-five membered crew no doubt had access to the small arms, it was doubtful that they would be willing to discharge them to prevent damaging the sensitive navigational equipment. He had brought his two M1911A sidearms and filled his pockets with ammunition, which had been carefully bagged in plastic to prevent damage, though Howard had assured him that these particular models would do just fine even if soaking wet. He wasn’t going to take that chance.

Instead, he removed the sidearms from their plastic sheeting and pulled out two extra clips of ammunition, willing to risk them in damp pockets.

Steve pressed himself against the steel of the conning tower when he heard the distinctive slide of steel on steel before it was followed with the creak as the hatch was thrown open. He listened for the first distinct words of German before he slid out from the side of the tower to face the open porthole, the disc of metal obscuring his careful approach to the crew member.

The crew man happened to be calling down into the submarine when he arrived, and beyond a single startled look, that was as far as their confrontation went. He grabbed the front of the young man’s uniform and hauled the 20-something right out of the hatch and tossed the man right into the warm sea waters. Aside from what he thought might be a German expletive (he’d have to check with Jones, who had been convinced to teach the Commandos bad German words), there was little to alert the crew below of his arrival.

Adrenaline sang through his veins as he moved around the hatch and slipped down the hole so that he could set his feet and hands on the metal ladder so he could slide right down to the deck. He stepped away to be faced with yet another startled look on a pimple-faced youth, but that confrontation ended just as a simply as he rammed his left elbow into the kid’s nose.

Steve had left to top hatch open so that the Commandos could easily follow him in from the safety boat that they had been occupying out at sea. It was also a sign that he had infiltrated successfully.

He had studied the lay-outs of German submarines before this mission, and he knew that the control center was at the forward end and not far from his current position. Apparently it was imperative that the command staff were closest to the escape in case of the submarine being scuttled or damaged. He figured it was also rare that a submarine came under assault from within.

He started down the deck towards the stairwell that would lead him to the control area, feeling distinctly claustrophobic as he maneuvered. He realized within a moment that he would have never suffered this sort of sensation if he had been in his smaller body, that everything would feel confined but not like he was being closed in. He felt admiration for the crew of such vessels to endure being in such confined space for week, months and perhaps even years at a time.

Steve managed to reach the control center of the submarine by keeping his head down, and he watched this part of the crew at their stations. Everyone seemed to be focused on the display screens or chatting quietly with each other while awaiting the next set of orders. The captain of the vessel was the most obvious as the one pacing and continuing repeating the same German phrase to various crew members who were obviously on communications.

Maybe he should have radioed down that they could surrender? He should have asked Jones was the German was for _‘drop your weapons because this vessel is being commandeered by the United States.’_ He somehow doubted that it would have the effect that he wanted.

He judged that any sneaking was impossible, since he currently inhabited the only hiding place behind a bulkhead. That would mean a direct assault and a forced surrender. He was good at those, though he had never done it on a submarine before. How hard could it be when he had no control over members of the crew with access to torpedoes?

He slipped one of his M1911A sidearms from the holster at his belt and drew in a deep breath. This was a horrible plan. That was probably why it was going to work; he was still working on his tactics on various situations. Most infantry training had nothing to do with taking a submarine single-handedly. Ah well, he had five dollars betting he could with Morita.

Steve gathered himself and then suddenly moved around the bulkhead, his buckler whipping out to smash into the face of a sailor who happened to be coming around the corner. The man dropped in a heap as he leapt the bar that separated him from the captain of the vessel and lifted his sidearm to press against the older man’s raised-eyebrowed face.

“Guten Tag”, he said in a chirp. “Does anyone speak English? Anyone?”

The entire crew was gaping at him, caught between sinking more into their seats and rising to contest his presence on the bridge of the control center. He moved his sidearm fast enough to shoot what might have been the navigator rising to attack him with a knife in the leg and then returned the point of the gun at the captain. The rest of the crew froze.

“English?” He really should have taken more private lessons with Jones. He put it on his list of things-to-do.

“I do,” came a tentative voice to his right. It was a young man with blond hair who slowly rose from a seat, clearly waiting to be shot.

“Tell the crew to stand down, and that this vessel is now property of the United States,” Steve said, indicating with his head for a translation.

The sailor in question clearly wished to have never spoken but did translate. It came on the heels of laughter from much of the crew, who clearly thought that he couldn’t hold to that claim. Unfortunately for them, he could, and he would. He gestured the captain to sit with a motion of his sidearm, glancing at the wounded man currently being tended by two crew members.

“What’s your name, son,” he asked of his new translator.

“Hans, sir,” the young man replied warily.

“I’m Steve, Hans. A pleasure,” he said. “Where does the _Leviathan_ berth?”

The young sailor glanced around, waving a hand quickly at the brunette sitting in the next seat who was hissing rapid German. There were desperate looks shared between the pair, and he expected that this was going to turn into an interrogation very soon. It was something he would hate to have to pass off to Rumlow. The man was extremely good at getting results in a short amount of time.

“Hans, eyes on me,” Steve ordered coolly. At that moment the red alarm light began to flash. The Commandos were on board. Good, things were proceeding on schedule.

“Are you… Captain America?”

If full introductions would get him the information that he wanted, he would give them. “I am. Now where does the _Leviathan_ make berth in the Mediterranean?”

“Zee tip of France,” Hans replied reluctantly. The captain barked a harsh sounding command, and Hans went still and silent.

“Have any of your crew been subjected to experimentation?”

Hans said nothing. Instead, the young man seemed distracted by the other crew member tugging on the man’s sleeve and again whispering in rapid German. It seemed to him to be the same few words over and over again, and no matter how much Hans waved the other man off, the crew member persisted and cast glances over to where he was keeping the captain contained.

Suddenly, the audio system came to life with a simple submarine wide call of _“Jolly Roger! I repeat, Jolly Roger!”_ That would be Falsworth.

Steve nodded his head, pleased that the engine room was secure. He was looking at the periscope nearby even as he waited for the signal that the weapon’s room was secure before he proceeded with the rest of the agreed plan.

He was forced to smash the captain in the side of the head with his buckler when the man tried to give an order. The crew was very, very still and silent in the face of their unconscious captain’s body sliding from the chair to the deck. He made no move to stop it as he looked around and waited

It was less than two minutes when Dugan’s voice crackled with, _“Chowder! Chowder, Cap!”_

He looked around at the stationary crew. “Your vessel has been commandeered by the United States military. You will not be harmed, but you can consider yourselves prisoners of war from this point onwards. You will be taken aboard another vessel and transferred for the duration of the war.”

He noted that Hans was translating in the breaks of his words, letting the crew know what was going on. He nodded at the man’s courage.

“Tell the crew to leave their stations as they are and head top side. They will wait for pick up by the HMS October,” Steve said firmly, pointing a finger towards the way that he had come as if it wasn’t obvious what he wanted.

“ _Hans, frag ihn!_ ”

The young blond sailor bore the look of a man about to be shot and tortured. “My brother vants to know if you vill give him your autograph. He is very big fan of Captain America.”

Steve smiled tightly; he was so glad none of the Commandos were here to see this. “If he has a pen and a skiff of paper, I will. However, if he attacks me, I will ring his bell.”

“Ah vell, a good memento for him. He iz a… how you say it, a ‘bonehead’,” Hans replied and then switched to rapid German and gestured with a very stiff and pointed finger.

While the rest of the crew began to stand in preparation for leaving, Hans’ brother bounded forward with all the enthusiasm of a puppy before shyly handing him a notebook to an open page and a pen. He couldn’t help the flush that rose up his neck at the reverent happy smile as he signed the paper.

“Hey boys, Cap’s giving out autographs to the Krauts,” Morita suddenly yelled from walking into the control center.

“Well shit, I want one,” Bucky said far more enthusiastically than necessary, despite carrying a serious expression otherwise. “Cap’s been holding out on us, Jim.”

“Should we tell Jones to announce it over the radio that Cap’s giving out his signature? Might keep the new POWs quiet as they flush with pleasure at their haul,” Morita said with a big grin. “Might be worth something someday.”

Steve groaned loudly.

*****

It was eerily empty.

The U-base was supposed to be thriving with life, but there was no sign that anyone was around as he and the Howling Commandos swept through the unloading bay. The loudest noise was their hobnailed boots striking against the metal grated floors and the soft calls of ‘clear’ as they swept through around crates of supplies and weapons, only to come together at the sealed entrance that would take them deeper into the U-base.

The _Leviathan_ bobbed in the waters, tied up and docked where they could easily depart if the resistance proved to be fierce for the six of them. He had left Rumlow and Bucky to help manage the forty-five man U-boat crew and get those prisoners of war to Algeria for proper interrogation. The meager crew left from the SS Kathleen were there to assist in that transport and establish communication with another freighter to come through the area. It was a necessary depletion of their ranks.

He had certainly been expecting some kind of resistance, though they had all been on edge when attempts to open communication with the U-base had failed to garner a response. He looked around the docking bay, a hidden area build into the rocky shoreline where the Mediterranean met with the Atlantic ocean. It could also only be apparently accessed from a U-boat, but this was apparently a well-established scientific reserve for HYDRA.

Steve knew that they would have to infiltrate quickly. He turned to the Commandos who were also surveying the loading bay with an unusual amount of quietness. No one liked a mission where they had no idea what to expect. Security was supposed to be minimal, but after unloading as they had, he had to wonder if this place was rigged to blow.

“Morita, Falsworth,” he said, getting everyone’s attention. “You two will be coming with me. Dugan, Jones and Dernier, you three are a team. We spread out and detain any personnel that we find. All information is to be saved for the SSR, and if you find anything important, radio it through to the other group.”

“Are we to recover samples,” Falsworth asked, rechecking the man’s favoured Sten gun.

“Data and a reasonable amount of this mysterious serum if we find it,” he replied. “No risking your lives to get your hands on the real thing.”

Everyone nodded, checked their weapons and their stores of munitions in packs and he turned his head to regard Dernier, gesturing a sign for the Frenchman to unlock or blow the door. Each man of his team raised a weapon and covered the door, Falsworth with a British Sten, Dugan with his Winchester 1897, Morita with the M3 Grease gun, Jones and himself using a M1928A1 Thompson, and Dernier rounding them off with M1A1, which was presently slung across the small man’s back.

It took several minutes of Dernier pulling the locking mechanism apart to access the electrical wires. With the soft crack and jump of electricity from the wires as they were touched together repeatedly, the door’s locking mechanism slide into the open position and the door withdrew into the wall, revealing a long wide hallway built into the very stone.

On the floor were tatters of cloth, keeping everyone from rising and moving to the obvious T-junction about ten meters away. Being closest, Dernier eased slightly out from being pressed against the metal frame of the door to look at the white, blue and grey bits of cloth.

“ _No blood, just torn._ ”

Jones finished the quick and easy translation and looked back at him. “Don’t like this at all, Cap.”

Dugan was eying the length of hallway before them and shifted as if uncomfortable. “Kind of makes me regret we left the ‘Coon floating on the water. It’d be real nice to have him zip to that T-junction and back.”

“What if whatever tore apart this material is down there,” Morita replied with a frown. “If it’s after clothes, we’d be stuck with a naked sniper.”

“I’d lend him my jacket when he blinked back,” Jones said.

“Careful, he’s of an Italian background, so you might not get it back afterwards,” Falsworth chimed in. Since some of them had been on the press North in the Italian campaign, clearly the thievery of basic necessities had spread around.

Steve smiled at the banter, but he knew that the sooner they got finished here, the sooner they could return to Algeria and back to the SSR in London. He appreciated the talk even as he took command of the unit again. “Jones, Dugan, Dernier move to the T and head left once our team moves right. Keep in radio contact if possible.”

Stark had once again designed a closed-circuit two-way radio, and it was smaller than the ones currently used in combat. It also lacked the obvious antenna, but it had a very limited range. Dernier had said that rock and steel may interfere with the pair of devices from sending and receiving, but they felt better knowing it had a possibility of working.

The lead team of Jones, Dugan and Dernier eased through the open door and crept down the hallway, communicating to each other with hand signals. Dugan covered the left wall and Jones the right with Dernier as there support, and both checked out each other’s line of hallway and waved their team up to join them.

After a quick glance down both sections of hallway and nodding the all clear, their teams separated, his going right and the other group of three going left. Falsworth took point first, moving along the hallway and checking door knobs with Morita covering. All the doors were locked that they passed and absolutely no sign of life in the hallway.

Eventually, at his request, they doubled back and he used his vibranium shield to smash in a doorknob, which left them shouldering the door open. It was storage and all the supplies were still neatly sealed in wood crates or metal carry containers. Upon breaking a few open, they found medical and scientific research supplies, nothing that wasn’t specifically placed for doing harm in a place like this. It was all very routine, which made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as they returned to searching through the underground facility.

“Falsworth, any estimation on the staffing levels here,” he whispered as they move around a corner.

“No, nothing is actually known about this facility,” came the soft reply as Morita lifted a hand to draw them to a stop.

The door to their left was slightly ajar. They all went very still and silent for a few seconds before determining no sound emanating from within. Further on in the hallway, there was a set of concrete stairs which Falsworth moved to cover with a sign from Morita.

Steve took point at the door, raising his Thompson as Morita reached over and shoved the door further open. He immediately stepped in to sweep the large room. It was like a warzone, papers, glass and bits of material littering the floors and tabletops. This was obvious a laboratory for research, but everything relating to actually doing any work was destroyed, tipped over or strewn about in a haphazard mess. There was no sign of what had caused such chaos, and he moved carefully around the main laboratory desk, his feet shifting the glass and paper underneath until he was bending down to sight some scribbled notes.

He gathered up a few papers and set them on the table, peering over to sight Morita holding position at the door. Most of the notes were words he didn’t understand, but there were plenty of pictures that people had drawn and indicated. By the gist of what he could figure out, this particular lab was about trying to create a creature named a ‘Hydra’, no doubt mythical of nature.  
He scanned through the mishmash of papers, picking out a word or two that he knew to recognize of German. There was a torn of piece that had the German word for ‘water’ on it, underlined several times to emphasize its importance in that particular sentence.

Steve decided to see if these radios would work at all here, and it took him a moment to flick the necessary switches to both activate the power supply and to attempt to access to the other radios. It crackled severely with a burst of white noise. He raised the hand-held microphone to his lips, his eyes flicking to the doorway where Morita glanced in from.

“Rogers to Jones. Do you read, over?”

More static crackled. He tried three more times to hail any of the other members of the team, and while the static settled down, there was no reply.

He was forced to gather up the papers that looked to have some importance to the research being done in this laboratory and tucked it under his arm, carefully walking down the other side of the table as he had originally walked down from. He paused to flip over several papers and due to the vast number of words decided to take them with him. There was also a half ripped book that appeared to hold personal notes and again, he noted that the word water was scribbled in big letters on a line in the notebook.

As he moved down the laboratory table, his radio crackled in his pack. There were jumbled words, but it was better than he had gotten on his own previous attempt. He swung off his pack and accessed the radio, turning the dials in an attempt to get a clearer message coming in.

“—ones …o… Ro—“

He collected up the mouth piece. “Rogers here. Repeat message, over.”

“—Jo… to …gers—“

“Keep working the dials, Cap. You might be able to distill a usable message out of that mess,” Morita said helpfully from the doorway, though the man was currently leaning beyond it to look down the hallway. “Falsworth, did you hear that?”

He returned to the radio, trusting the other members of his team to keep the area secure. He flipped a few switches as the radio crackled and slowly turned the dials so that there was less white noise over the radio and a few clear words. It was obvious that Jones was doing much the same on the other end, and that this might be their own time and opportunity to establish contact with each other.

Finally, after more than ten minutes of efforts and continually repeating the same message over and over, he managed to establish enough radio contact to be able to check in with the other team. Bursts of static still occurred but less, and he knew there was nothing that they could do about that given that they were under a mountain. It was probably a testament of Stark’s skill that they had any radio contact at all given the nature of their assignment.

“Jones, I have acquired some notes from an abandoned lab. Has your team found anything, over?” Steve had to press his ear into the speaker, but he almost instantly regretted that at the crackle of static that sounded. He winced and shook his head.

Still, there came an actual coherent reply of more than three words, which was a vast improvement. “Cap, we’ve got a lab of some kind and sleeping quarters. No personnel. I repeat, no personnel, over.”

“Any information, over?”

“Yes, we have scattered notes, but this place looks like they left in a hurry. I’ve translated a few pieces of information that you’d find interesting. Would you like a run down now or on the meet-up, o—“ There was a crackle of static, and he waited for more of a response. There was nothing more coming down the line, forcing him to assume that Jones was active at the radio still.

“What were they working on, Jones? Over,” he said, flipping through his own selection of papers for the diagrams that he hoped would make more sense with an explanation.

“Cell regeneration serum,” Jones’ voice said, starting very soft and gaining strength. “They wanted to increase healing of SS and HYDRA soldiers to return them to combat. Some theory on limb regeneration too. Over.”

Steve found the papers he was looking for. “I’ve got papers with diagrams. It looks like some kind of monsters with multiple limbs like the kraken. There are a few references for water. Over.”

“Nothing specific on water in my notes. Do you want me to translate? Over.”

Steve looked up from the notes as Morita and Falsworth conferred together, but he could only hear Jim’s side of the conversation. Neither man’s tone held any kind of alarm, so he returned to flipping through papers until he found the reference to water with the underlines. Why did he experience a sense of foreboding?

“Jones, are you listening, over?”

“Ready, over,” Jones replied promptly.

“ _Es ist im wasser sickerte_ is the reference. What’s the translation, over?” Okay, he might have butchered the emphasis in the words, but Gabe had fumbled with worse attempts from them.

Yet, there was a potent pause from Jones’ end of the radio enough that he thought that he might have lost the connection. Static buzzed and popped into his ear.

“It means: ‘it’s leaked in the water’.” There was another pause. “Their private fresh water supply, over?”

Steve felt a shock of numbness through him at the sheer notion that a member of HYDRA may have accidentally, or worse purposefully, tainted the water supply here. And why not? This was a confined area, the docking bay had been locked which would contain any escape attempts, assuming that anyone survived the ordeal to begin with. Had the _Leviathan’s_ crew known and were charged with investigating? Had one of them actually tainted the water?

He gathered the notes up and stuffed them into his pack next to the radio, now more than ever needing them. “Jones, get your team to rendezvous with us, but bring whatever useful notes that you can, over.”

“Roger that, Cap. Over and out.” There was a final crackle before the radio went eerily silent.

He sighed and shook his head, taking a quick moment to stretch out his shoulders before slinging his pack back into place. He glanced around the lab, that sense of foreboding growing as he looked at the tattered clothing and scattered notes all over the place. He had no doubt that the individuals in this place had suffered more than a few moments of panic before whatever had occurred took place.

Morita was still in the doorway, on alert and looking up and down the hallway. He approached from behind, being certain to jingle some of his gear to announce himself. “We’re heading back to the T-junction to meet up with Dugan, Jones and Dernier.”

“Roger that,” Jim chirped and stepped out of the doorway to return to the hall. “Hey Falsworth, we’re on the back-track to the big T.”

Steve looked up to the top of the stairs where Falsworth had taken up a watch, and the Englishman was waving an acknowledgement and starting down the stairs. “Anything of interest?”

“Creaking in the pipes, but otherwise, nothing apparently breathes but us,” Falsworth said, taking the stairs two at a time.

Midway down the stairs, one of the many large pipes travelling along the ceiling suddenly gave away as if under a great weight. There was a hiss of air and then both he and Morita froze as something very large oozed from the open pipe and hit the stairs directly behind where Falsworth had suddenly slammed himself up against the wall.

It was a massive deposit of what could only be described as flesh, though it was botchy with dark colouration. It flattened momentarily, oozing out and tangling around Falsworth’s legs before he realized a moment later that the aspects that flared out and seemed to run like rising bread all over the place were actually thick smooth limbs. Then the main ‘body’ seemed to gather itself, rising in a way that he had never seen before, unable to comprehend that it was similar to an octopus. It took him a moment to realize that the hissing air from the broken pipe wasn’t the only noise, instead a distinct wheeze emerging from the creature.

“Falsworth, get out of there!”

Steve looked at Morita, who seemed caught between the need to shoot and the want to put more distance. He slipped his shield to his grip and held it by the straps, waiting for the Englishman to make a move to slip away.

However, the moment that Falsworth began the process of slogging through the thick pinkish flesh, it contracted around the man’s legs and then more immediately snapped out to curl around the man. “Bloody hell, a little help!”

His shield slammed into the tentacle reaching to cover over Falsworth’s head at the same time that Morita opened fire with the grease gun, planning multiple bullets into the main body of the creature. It issued a noise that wasn’t human, and even though his shield impacted and cut through the thick tentacle, another immediately replaced it and swept Falsworth into its fleshy underside.

Steve charged in, bringing his M1928A1 rifle to his hands to fire off a few shots, though he kept it to the periphery to limit any risk of hitting Falsworth. He reached the creature in time to be bowled over into the wall as it moved with a strange liquid swiftness. He slammed into the wall, landing close to his shield as the creature knocked into Morita who had still be unloading many clips of ammunition into it.

The sound of gunfire abruptly cut off with a colourful sharp word, which he was left to assume was a Japanese curse. Gunfire was abruptly cut off a moment after that expletive.

He jumped to his feet, raising his shield to deflect the bruising slap of a thick tentacle. He was surprised to find himself almost pushed to his knees and had to set his shoulder under the vibranium to prevent his own collapse. The creature sounded a low gurgling noise, lashing another tentacle at him, which he managed to side-step by twisting his body and shield to drop the thick flesh he had previously been holding up. It slammed down, blocking the one making an attempt for his legs.

There were distant shouts, the rest of the Commandos no doubt alerted from the sound of gunfire. He dropped to one knee to lean his shield against his thigh in order to free his hands to lift his rifle to release a burst of ammunition.

The creature hissed and began to withdraw far faster than any soldier. It seemed to twist and roll over itself, gathering limbs and using them to spring and bound up the stairs. It was up and over the top before he could do more than fire another handful of shots. He picked up his shield and rose to follow, but was caught short by the sudden appearance of the other trio.

“Single hostile, big and strong,” he said quickly. “It moves quickly too, and it currently has Morita and Falsworth. We move on the double.”

“It’s hurt,” Jones pointed out, gesturing with the tip of the man’s own M1928A rifle to the blotching spotting of blood on the floor. It was red and nothing particularly out of the ordinary. There was a significant pooling of it where the lost tentacle remained flattened and lifeless on the floor.

“Both Morita and I shot it,” he said simply.

“Didn’t seem to slow it down if you lost it,” Dugan interjected.

They could have stood and debated the matter, but they had to move quickly if they had any hope of following the creature and win back their comrades. He took the lead, charging up the stairs and onto the upper floor hallway with the other three Commandoes hot on his heels.

This hallway was long and with few doors to begin with before it branched twice. Dugan stopped at one to pace down the first branch and reported no sign of blood and Jones slipped down the second branch to report the same thing. Dernier kept up with him as best as possible, pointing out spattering of blood and gesturing to indicate how it had been smeared.

It was Dernier that came to a sudden halt at one of the door, drawing him to a stop first and then Dugan and Jones when they caught up.

“ _Here. Help me with the door,_ ” the Frenchman ordered, trying to wedge fingers into the slot between the two doors coming together. The knobs had been violently broken off, and wherever they had gone, it wasn’t at their feet. Instead, there was just bloody smears.

It took the four of them with the help of wedging his shield in to get the doors to open again to reveal a long square shaft that went straight down into blackness and up into a mechanical sheet of metal. Long thick cables ranged from the bottom of the metal roof and headed straight down into the blackness. He hadn’t seen cable that thick for an elevator before, but clearly HYDRA was moving heavy materials.

“Jones, you’re with me heading into the shaft,” he ordered as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and then attached his shield to a clip to his pack. “Dugan, you’re on radio and keeping Dernier here safe. Jacques, I need this elevator running a-sap.”

“Right,” Dugan said agreeably. “What are the chances there are more than one of these things?”

“It’s HYDRA, isn’t their whole shtick about cutting off heads and more regrowing,” Jones piped up, securing down all straps that might get caught in their descent.

“Filling me with confidence here,” Dugan replied sarcastically. “These HYDRA critters are really starting to get on my nerves. I make a dollar-fifty a day to be stalked by… whatever it is we’re dealing with.”

“ _Giant octopus_ ,” Dernier added, looking up from the smashed electrical panel for the elevator.

“You’d know all about octopus, wouldn’t you,” Jones said with a smile for all their benefit. “We aren’t eating it.”

“We don’t have any butter,” Steve said sagely before leaning into the open shaft to grab the thick wire. “If you find some, we’ll discuss the French delicacy.”

Dernier gave him a thumbs-up while Dugan looked slightly disgusted. Whatever conversation between the two happened was beyond even his enhanced hearing as he jumped into the shaft and set the bottom of his boots to the cable to control the speed of his descent and prevent him from tearing through his gloves with the heat of friction that came from moving downwards.

He slid down at least three floors into complete darkness until his boots hit the bottom of the elevator shaft. He nearly lost his balance stepping out of the way so that Jones could join him, and there was apparently still operational emergency lighting just beyond their location. It was probably the only way that he could grope his way to the edge of the shaft and haul himself out.

There was no sign of either the creature or their comrades. There was only the soft occasional drip of water further down the rocky hallway that he found himself in. This hallway was cast with various shadows, and he shook his head at the dampness in the air.

Steve turned his head back when the sliding form of Jones hit the bottom of the shaft. He shifted to reveal more of the light. “Four careful paces,” he said and helped the other Commando out of the shaft quietly when Jones reached him.

“I’ll bring up the rear, Cap,” Jones uttered softly.

“Stay close,” he replied, only because in the dim light it would be difficult for them to understand their hand signals to each other. That put them at a disadvantage, but at least they had something, even if it was dim.

He crept forward, sticking close to the left wall, and they had to pause to slip down a few large hallways to search for the creature. All the doors were locked and intact, and they were soon enough continuing on their way further down the main hallway from where they had entered from the elevator. Another set of branched hallways had them once again leaving the main track, but all the doors were intact and no sign of their quarry.

The sound of water dripping was getting louder and more frequent, and Jones nearly slipped once on a puddle that had gathered on the floor. The rough walls glistened with liquid, and the smell of salty water assaulted his nose as they made their way further down the long hallway and came to a pair of doors that looked remarkably like the ones in which they had entered into the facility from the _Leviathan_.

However, the size and density was about where the similarities ended. The doors were warped and twisted on their hinges, clearly forced. The emergency lighting was still present inside when he took the lead to press himself against one of the warped doors and then peeked in while Jones remained poised and ready to fire at anything that happened to move in a threatening manner from within.

He turned his head and gestured in the dim light the instructions that he wanted. Gabe nodded and gestured an affirmative, and he clenched his hand on the handles of his shield and darted inside, raising his shield chest level when he had moved beyond the doors. Jones followed him in almost immediately and slipped out to his left to cover his weaker side.

“Cap,” Morita’s soft voice uttered from his right.

“Rogers, careful,” Falsworth added a moment after Jim.

If he were expecting a climatic battle, he would be sorely disappointed. The creature was settled in a far corner where it was more rock than steel supports. It was still massive, but there was a nest of cloth on which it was settled, appearing flabby and sunken in on itself. The shadows cast by the emergency lighting made it seem more fearsome than pathetic, but the soft wheezing was more like a gentle sobbing.

He approached with his shield raised in his right hand and his left filled with his M1912A sidearm, though he was still a fairly piss-poor shot on the left. He paused when he was close enough to actually identify Morita and Falsworth, both men sunken to their necks in the flesh of the creature and both unable to move.

“Steve,” Jones sounded next to him. “Look at the wall to your right.”

Steve did, and there was faint writing on a steel support beam. It was a list that ran the length of the pillar, but some of the words were crossed out haphazardly. It took him only a moment of studying the words to realize that they were a list of names. A second later he deduced that it was names of the researchers and support staff of this facility.

He looked at Jones who was also hovered close to read the names and no doubt came to the same conclusion. “Why cross out names?”

“They are crossed out with what might be blood. You and Morita fired into the creature, so what if you hit what might have been individual people in that… mess,” Jone said softly, looking over at the creature who hadn’t moved in their presence. There was blood, but it appeared to have been absorbed into the cloth bedding.

Steve stepped away from the steel support beam and approached the fleshy creature carefully. He tucked his sidearm away and made a soft soothing noise, just to see if he could get a reaction. There was a shift of flesh, the creature gaining height and apparently focusing on him despite having no visible eyes for him to focus on.

“Jones, talk to it in German,” he said softly. “Convince it to let Jim and Monty go.”

If Gabe seemed skeptical at the order, the dark-skinned Commando didn’t let it show. Instead, Jones took a soft encouraging tone most commonly associated with speaking to children. He didn’t understand most of what was said, and while the creature uttered nothing in return, its thick tentacles shifted along the nest of cloth. It took at least fifteen minutes of Jones speaking almost constantly in German before those fleshy arms moved and released Morita first and Falsworth a minute later.

Both men appeared no worse for wear physically, but their clothing was wet with blood and torn in several places. Both suffered what appeared to be burns, but it was difficult to tell in the limited light. He set both men right and standing and ushered them back towards the entrance to the room.

Steve stepped up to Jones and set a hand on the man’s thick shoulder. “Tell it that it has to come with us, and we’ll have someone in the United States get the survivors apart.”

“Who has that kind of expertise?” Gabe didn’t take eyes off of the creature who was shifting but not settling down again now that its catch was gone.

“Howard Stark might not know, but he will find people who can,” Steve replied, feeling a pang of sympathy for this creature. They may have served HYDRA, but this was a horrible fate.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea,” Gabe asked.

“We can’t leave them like this regardless of their affiliation,” Steve said with a bit of a helpless shrug. “Maybe if we can reverse this process, we can find out what they know. Either way, we can’t guarantee that it can survive, and HYDRA will be more likely to take it apart.”

It was agreed upon that the _Leviathan_ could house this creature, and Jones didn’t have to put in much effort to convince it out of its nest of ripped up clothing and blankets. Dernier had managed to get the elevator operational by the time that they arrived, and it became an uncomfortable squeeze with all four of them plus their new fleshy addition.

Steve found himself with a mess of tentacles piled up and burying him up to his waist, and the creature seemed to take the close confines of the area to nuzzle on him, if that’s what the shifting could be called.

Arriving to the main level again, Dugan took one look into the elevator when the doors opened and whistled appreciatively. “Making friends, boys?”

“Oh yes, best mates here,” Falsworth uttered with a side-long look at the fact that their lower halves were buried in fleshy tentacles.

*****  
**Algiers Port, Algeria - March 1944**  


Steve was ever so glad to be out of the claustrophobic aisles of the _Leviathan_ and back onto dry land. The fact that they managed to bring the submarine into dock was something of a miracle, though they thankfully only had to rise and angle it before they were tugged into port. Off loading was a bit more difficult, given that they had what everyone had started calling the creature the ‘HYDRA Hands’ for its ability to sidle into corners and then hug anyone making the mistake of walking by.

Once the docks were cleared to leave only Bucky, Rumlow and a handful of sailors and senior officers did Jones convince their precious cargo up and out of the _Leviathan_ , much to the shock of everyone standing on the dock. The creature seemed shy at being exposed to the sun, and it hung back to the end of the dock with Jones, who was privileged with talking to the creature. German seemed to keep it calm.

Bucky walked up to his elbow and made a soft clucking noise. “Is that why Dernier said we should ask the cooks about butter?”

“Probably, but I doubt we have a pan big enough,” he replied with a grin. “However, that’s the end result of HYDRA’s experimentation, and we’re sending it to Howard to separate the people.”

“You don’t ask him any easy tasks, do you,” his best friend said while still eyeing the creature.

“He’s the only one I know who could possibly handle something of this magnitude,” he replied with a bit of a helpless shrug. “Any word from Agent Carter?”

“Nothing but a request for an update, which aside from the crew, we didn’t have at the time. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to hear that you’re sending a giant human octopus to her,” Bucky said. “No one was hurt?”

Steve watched the shy creature as Dugan made a loud show of introducing Rumlow to their HYDRA experiment, and for his part, he found it nice that Brock seemed to be the least disgusted of everyone seeing the creature for the first time. In fact, Rumlow slipped out from under Dugan’s arm and marched right up to the creature, hands on hips and examining it like a Drill Sergeant inspecting the troops for wrinkles in their uniforms. Dugan’s booming laugh reached them in response to Rumlow’s wave at the creature, as if trying to attract its attention from where it had sagged.

“Bruises and welts, but otherwise, we made it out without incident. Just a few close calls,” he said and ran hand through his sweat-hardened hair. “Could use a shower and a change of uniform.”

“Sea is right there,” Bucky said and pointed over the side of the door.

There was a shout as Gabe was suddenly knocked right off the dock into the water and Rumlow seized around the waist. Between the moment when he gathered his wits to bellow an order, the creature and their secondary sniper were pitched over the side of the dock between the cement post and the _Leviathan_.

Bucky and a sailor rushed to the end of the dock to retrieve Jones from the water while he and Dugan rushed to the side of the dock and shoved equally against the side of the _Leviathan_ so that the submarine was forced to the edge of the ropes holding it and looked into the water to see the last faint glow of blue light.

*****  
**Austrian Alps HYDRA Headquarters – March 1944**  


The Red Skull looked down his nearly non-existent nose at the bedraggled mess of man and what could only be described as beast that was currently blocking the panoramic view of the Austrian Alps. It was entirely unexpected, given that their next scheduled meeting was not for another five days, but his temper held as he waved off the three _Hauptmann_ of his HYDRA ranks with a hand. Their debriefing was at an end while he sorted out what was going on here as the mass of tentacles twisted and settled more on the cool floors.

The creature before him was impressive in size, but the pink fleshy colouration was not particularly an adaptation that any sea-creature would have. He noted odd areas of blotchy dark colouration, but it was not in a pattern that would warn off predators or even act as proper concealment among rocks or kelp. There were also no discernible eyes or ear flaps that one would expect from a cephalopod of this sheer size. It was impossible to tell if there were beak-like mouth parts due to the sheer excess of flesh.

Quite frankly, the only normal and yet still unique aspect of this entire situation was the dark-haired American Corporal who had crawled over to his waste bin and promptly vomited inside of it. Rumlow was looking decidedly pale, shivering subtly along the shoulders and clutching the waste bin like it was a lifeline. He also objectively noted that there was a fading blue cast to the man’s skin, and he wondered if it was time to measure how much of the Tesseract’s energy remained. He would hate to lose this novelty to science in his waste bin. They had so much to discover about the man after all.

His eyes flicked between the odd pair, and he folded his hands behind his back as he waited for an explanation. The hulking saggy mass of flesh and tentacles shifted and it looked to him as if multiple parts at once were trying to either fall over or bow.

“You’ve disturbed an important meeting, Corporal,” he said in his usual briskness. “This deserves both an explanation and potential punishment.”

“ _Herr Skull_ …”

His eyes darted to the creature as the deep gurgled voice emanated from there, but there were still no discernible facial features so he had no actual idea where he was supposed to be looking. He covered that confusion by pretending to appraise the massive beast with a sweep of his eyes from top to bottom.

“You will not speak until I have determined it is worth my time,” he replied sharply and turned his eyes on the soppy wet but recovering American. “An explanation, Corporal.”

Rumlow managed to stand upright, but it seemed like a near thing. A growing puddle of water haloed around the man’s booted feet. “That’s what is left of your U-base scientific research and staff. The _Leviathan_ was captured and the Commandos infiltrated the U-base.” A thumb was jabbed at the creature. “That was the only living thing found.”

Ah, the cell regeneration project that he had designated to some of the smartest cellular biologists and biochemists. They had been making progress, he knew, but the last report had been marked with errors and recalibration because of a considerable problem with overgrowth. He had been told that they were looking into apoptosis theory and would be correcting the problem that way, since genetics was not making much headway.

“Were there dead samples?”

“I don’t know,” Rumlow replied with a shrug, pushing back water-logged hair from falling into the man’s face. “I wasn’t part of the infiltration team.”

Johann turned his eyes on the Corporal, allowing his heated glare indicate his displeasure that his apparent prized mole failed to weasel in deeper. “And where were you?”

Rumlow didn’t appear to be the least bit affected by his look. That was good; he appreciated a man with spine. “I was assigned to managing the forty-five prisoners from the _Leviathan_.”

“Ah,” he sounded, dismissive of that assignment.

Instead, his eyes raked over the hulking beast that shifted but never in particular unison, as if many minds were at work. It was clear that the entire creature could work both independently and united for whatever purpose was necessary. What a marvel it was, though not what he had been hoping or expecting out of the project when he had initiated it. Still, so much could be learned with time and opportunity.

“What is the state of the _Leviathan_?” That was HYDRA property, and with a report on the torpedoes working as expected, he would dislike losing it.

“It’s under SSR assignment, but I wasn’t there long enough to get the low-down on if it would be transported to England or remain in Algeria,” Rumlow replied crisply, gaining strength after the clear ordeal of transporting so much weight and flesh here.

“And the crew?”

“Prisoners,” came the reply. “Do you want me to silence them?”

The corner of his lip turned up, and, while it was tempting to let the fox out into that hen house, he knew those sailors were skilled and loyal. The war was taxing all aspects of personnel and even losing forty-five could be detrimental.

“Could you transport them here?” He regarded the Corporal with an almost challenging smile.

“No,” Rumlow replied without hesitation. “Too many people. One or two, yes, but not forty-five and certainly not at all once.”

That was an expected answer, but he peered at his little spy with a mounting interest. What if it were possible to transport forty-five people from one location to another with only the necessary reconnaissance of a single picture a reference? The flesh was weak, but if it was not the only mode for transport, he didn’t think that there would be much in the way of fatigue. It would be more like having a conduit in place to stabilize the energy and mentally reference the location and time. That would change the war better than even his Valkyrie.

The Skull nodded his head, accepting the limitations for the time being. He would discuss the matter with some of his engineers. He needed a new pet project of his own, and this would certainly pass the time of those hours between reports and mobilization.

Instead, he walked closer to the hulking beast, moving around Rumlow to come and stand in front of it. He felt the Corporal fall in at his right elbow, and it was a show of loyalty that they had not previously established with one another. That was good. It went a long way from him waving the man off as if shooing a cur; he couldn’t afford to ostracize the American at this point in time. Too much hinged on that angle of support.

However, this creature was a failure but a useful one. “Can you speak?”

There was low moaning gurgle in reply before a guttural, “Herr Skull.” That was a sign that understanding was had in response to his words. However, this monstrosity was clearly non-verbal aside from that single phrase. That was a shame; he was going to have to take it apart slowly and tease all the little details of its creation out of it with a sharp blade.

Yet, one of the tentacles shifted, reaching out from the main bulk to press on the light switch that would illuminate his desk. The lights were flicked on and off, and he turned his head sharply to regard Rumlow. “Paper and a pen, now,” he demanded.

Morse code. Their communication officer was in that mess. Excellent.

Johann snatched the paper and pencil that the Corporal brought him and he retreated to the map table, his eyes drinking in the flicking and writing down the message.

_Hail HYDRA._  
Mission compromised.  
Forgive us. 

He shook his head slightly, displeased with the lack of useful information. However, the fact that it could communicate was worthwhile, and he would arrange for this interesting creature to code out the information that he sought. There was no hurry. He had this creature in his grasp, and that was most important to continuing and building on the work that had been happening. He supposed that he would pass some of it over to Zola who was working on developing a stable super soldier serum.

Johann turned to Rumlow who was gazing off towards where they both knew the Tesseract was housed. “You can return to this U-base and gather the research notes?”

“Captain Rogers has some notes apparently,” the Corporal replied.

“Can you acquire them?” Those would, after all, be the most useful to build on this work.

“It will be a risk, but I can get my hands on them,” Rumlow said with a small shrug. “No doubt they will be taken to wherever Stark is. However, if scientific research is going missing consistently, they are going to start to look for a leak.”

That was true, and right now, his American was exactly where they both wanted the man. He was not about to sacrifice the war on the whim of needing research. “Then find out how and when they will be transported if you can and I will see that another agent will be made available to acquire them.”

Rumlow nodded and again pushed back dripping hair back into place. The significant puddle of water had grown between the American and the beast. He appraised them both, and he understood that a risk had been taken to get the beast here, one that could cost them dearly if not handled correctly.

“We are ever closer to our final objective, our own HYDRA _blitzkrieg_ , on the world powers,” Johann said, pulling away from the sad looking pair. He picked up the phone connecting to an internal line and called for a group to come and remove their experimental failure to the labs. “We are close, and you Corporal will deliver me the most arrogant piece currently clogging up the maps. We are on schedule.”

He watched the American look at him and nod, determination a key trait in the man. There was no doubt nothing could hinder that now, not with them finally reaching a decorum of uneasy trust and unity that had previously been missing. Loyalty was good and doing so with a spine was even better.

“I’ll deliver as promised,” Rumlow remarked unnecessarily, clearly not feeling well still.

Schmidt moved away from his desk to walk over to the holding container where he kept the Tesseract from prying eyes and gently removed Her from the insulated metal tube, still encased in its glass cylinder and frame. “Come closer, Corporal.”

The American did but reluctantly, and he gestured impatiently until they were standing shoulder to shoulder. The Tesseract, as always, reacted to the Corporal’s presence, a clear pure sound emanating from it. “She has missed you it seems. Every day Her power grows as we utilize Her, yet for you, my American spy, She has only songs to sing.”

Rumlow looked on the verge of backing up a step, and he simply shoved the cylinder into the Corporal’s hands. Suddenly, there was a blast of energy that struck and staggered the man, but it didn’t matter because above his head filling the high roof of his study were the cosmos, the stars and the worlds beyond their own. He saw them, his gaze captivated as knowledge poured through that hole, fed by energy of the singing Tesseract. That knowledge was for superior men and it seemed to caress him as a lover might had he bothered with them anymore.

Johann Schmidt found little in the world that he lived in beautiful, but this show of worlds away was breathtaking. All his for the taking, his with his supreme race of super-soldiers and stabilized somehow. The knowledge came to him at his request, filling him up as if he were a glass made to be topped up with his purity. He sighed at it, his eyes closing as the illusion of arousal stirred in him.

As soon as it came, the energy abruptly cut off as the glass container holding the Tesseract set down on the table next to him. He turned his head to view the American next to him who had a blush of health that previously had been absent, a glow of skin that spoke of power.

Then it bled away like some kind of illusion and his American breathed out heavily. The blush gone, the glow dimmed, but it appeared to him as if the man had put on flesh, healthy muscle perhaps. “I should get back. It wasn’t exactly well timed my coming here.”

“Report the location of my possessions,” he ordered coldly as the Corporal turned away, appearing in some kind of half-daze.

“Aye Captain,” Rumlow said and gave him what he could only describe as a wave. Like they were old drinking buddies or something. The man was gone in a flash of blue light in the next moment.

Johann looked down that the quiet glowing Tesseract next to his left hand. “How much can that one take, I wonder?” The Tesseract remained silent.

*****  
**Algiers Port, Algeria - March 1944**  


“Look,” Dernier hollered at the end of the dock, pointing out at the sudden spark of blue five feet above the water.

Steve pushed his way beyond the gathered sailors as Brock Rumlow suddenly appeared and fell quite dramatically with a loud “shit” and arms flailing into the warm waters of the Mediterranean. For his part, he sighed in relief, since it had taken their second sniper longer than usual to blink back into existence after that sudden pull off of the dock.

“Where did it go,” he called, but it appeared that Rumlow was too busy swimming to the side of the dock. He lingered back to look for a shadow of where the HYDRA octopus experiment had gone, expecting its shadow to appear at any time.

Dugan and Bucky hauled their second sniper out of the water wet, bedraggled and with seaweed clinging to the man’s uniform. “I didn’t know you could swim,” Dugan announced to cut through the tension.

“Ah well, it’s better than drowning, right?” Rumlow coughed and shook his head. “I couldn’t get my bearings under water. I blinked and put myself under the _Leviathan_ and panicked. Came up over here before I sucked in too much water.”

“The HYDRA Hands?” Jones asked while still looking over the dock, still rather wet himself from being dumped.

Brock looked at him and shook in apology. “I don’t know. It didn’t grab me again after I blinked away, and then I was too all disoriented to know.”

“Swam for safety or something,” Bucky put in, more question than fact.

That wasn’t right, Steve thought. It had agreed to come with them, had agreed to be sent to the United States for help, so why escape now? Could it be that it had panicked after being too overwhelmed by the number of people on the dock gawking at it? He thought that Jones had it well and good in hand, but now it was gone to God knew where, their chance for teasing out key HYDRA details was gone with it.

“Maybe it got confused or needed a swim. Could come back,” Dugan said doubtfully.

“Maybe,” Jones said, looking out over the water where there was no sign of their lost handsy octopus experiment.

_“Goodbye rare delicacy,”_ Dernier said softly. Jones did not bother to translate.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite considerable information searching, I couldn’t find an actual Allied merchant vessel sinking in March of 1944. So the SS Kathleen is a fictional ship, not one that is historically accurate. Also, the abilities of the thunder lance torpedoes is improvised, but it sounded cool in my head, so there you go.
> 
> Heuptmann is the German rank equivalent to Captain.
> 
> I always appreciate any comments or kudos that I receive. I am hoping to be back on schedule next month. Also, all the big shit is going down in chapter 10. No regrets except the challenge of having to write an epic war scene like a massive beach raid.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was on time for this chapter! I actually set an alarm so that I could get it up after work.
> 
> Okay, an explanation on this little adventure: this is taking place during the Marvel video game Captain America: Super Soldier, which apparently is not actually part of the MCU or anything, but it has some of the actual actors as their characters voices. Not a great game, but I found the plot interesting enough to take part of it for a mission for the crew. For anyone that wants to take a look, there are plenty of gameplay videos on youtube. You might not actually be missing much.

*****  
 **Bavaria, Germany - April 1944**  


The mission was f-u-b-a-r. The initial protest that going after Zola in Nazi-Germany being too dangerous had been brushed aside given that they were a specialized infiltration unit, and they could do what others could not. Rumour had gotten back to the SSR that Zola was advancing quickly on the path to creating a stable super soldier serum and possible immortality, and they were to not only capture the Swiss scientist but all of his research notes and samples if possible. It was probably their most dangerous mission but also one that required the most delicate infiltration.

Naturally, it all went wrong. Rogers had been dropped in to destroy anti-aircraft weaponry on site so that Dugan, Falsworth, Barnes and himself could parachute in for support and the final hunting of Zola. It had gone well until they had lost communication with Steve, which in and of itself was not the end of the world given the super-soldier’s value, but there had been that whole revelation of a hidden anti-aircraft gun and radio dish that had taken out the wing of their plane.

They had gotten out, and he assumed the pilots were dead in the crash into the mountainside. They had been taken prisoner, and he and Barnes separated from Dugan and Falsworth early on. They had been roughed up but put into old mildew smelling cells to await their turn under the special knife, not that either he or Barnes needed any more special tampering.

Rumlow knew where they were in general, having read up a little on the factions of HYDRA, and Zemo’s family fortune had been mentioned. He had not been able to study pictures of the interior or even enough of the grounds to make a blink to another area. If he and Barnes were going to make a move, it would be the old fashioned way, which he appreciated in building-to-building combat. It was such a thrill.

Two armed guards were making passes back and forth in front of their cells, seemingly content in them being contained and non-threatening. The pair spoke in German, and he could only pick out one or two words that made any sense.

He could hear Barnes standing at the cell door same as he, and he smirked when the not-yet-Winter Soldier chirped some Brooklyn nonsense comment at their guards. He instead just hummed quietly to himself and studied the hallway directly in front of and beside his cell. For now, he was content to wait, listening for any sign of where their fellows had been taken so that he and Bucky could fight their way to that location.

He folded his forearms across the bars and sighed as the sting of bruises made themselves known to him again. On the other side of the wall, he heard Barnes do much the same.

“How long are we going to wait here,” Bucky called quietly. It was unclear if their guards could understand English after all, and this was not a topic they wanted overheard.

“Until we get a sign of where we need to go or they take us out of here to join Dum-Dum and Monty,” he said. It would be his ability to broke them out after all.

“We could just ask,” Bucky drawled.

Rumlow snorted softly and laced his fingers together around a cold slimy bar. “HYDRA doesn’t generally force people into their ranks, according to Phillips. These guys actually want to be here,” he said as their guards made another pass, still speaking rapidly in German.

They went silent, watching the pair pace and he turned his head as he watched Barnes dangle arms out of the cell door. It was just in his line of sight, but as they both suspected, there was a sharp word and a baton slamming against the bars roughly as soon as their baby-sitters noticed.

“You got a weapon,” he asked Bucky quietly once their guards walked by again, more alert than ever for them trying something fishy.

“I am a weapon,” Barnes gloated with all bluster and air. No doubt the not-Soldier had no idea how true that statement was.

_“The prisoner has escaped! All combat soldiers on alert! Capture the prisoner at all costs!”_

Rumlow carefully watched their guards’ reactions to the sudden blaring announcement. They came to a snapped attention and began to bark almost comically at each other. It might have been the alarm that was now filling the air with emergency noises, but he had a hunch that basic English was understood. It was good that they had taken precautions when whispering to each other.

“Barnes?”

“Ready when you are, Bones,” came the reply next to him.

In a blink of blue light, he was on the other side of the bars. He slammed a sharp elbow into the head of the guard nearest him before he blinked again and was in the safety of Bucky’s cell. They both stepped away from the bars together, far enough that for their guards to get to them physically, the pair would have to open the door, which was clearly ineffective at keeping him inside.

That idea must have been obvious because instead of risking coming inside with both of them, their guards instead pulled out normal P38 lugers and aimed inside. He reached out and gripped Bucky by the left wrist, tugging the other brunette closer to him as he eyed the way their guards hesitated from just plain shooting them.

“I want one,” Bucky whispered in his ear, nodding towards the lugers.

“Greedy bastard,” he griped and then blinked them both out of the cell to be in the free space beside the pair of guards. He was aware of the risks of moving them both at the same time, but it was better than being shot outright.

He expected them both to be assaulted with a wave of nausea as he had experienced when taking Falsworth in transport with him, but aside from a brief twist of vertigo where the ceiling and the floor seemed to switch, there was nothing. In fact, the moment they were on the other side of the bars, Barnes was on the move as if it were perfectly natural to do so.

Bucky was in the face of the guard closest to them in two steps, hand snapping down to seize the hilt of the knife tucked on the poor bastard’s belt. There was enough time for the guard to realize what was happening before Barnes was stabbing the man in the neck and twisting them around to give him an opening in which to work.

Rumlow blinked to being behind the second guard just as the man fired with a shout of, “for HYDRA!” He appeared and kicked the man’s knees out before seizing a knife and slitting the guard’s throat in a quick brutal motion. He turned and looked at Bucky as the blaring died away to leave only the soft dying sounds of men choking on their own blood.

“Did you get your luger,” he asked as he bent and began to search the body for useful equipment.

“Seems unfitting to have without the whole uniform,” Bucky replied while also pulling off weapons, but they were only small arms and ammunition. It seemed that these guys more preferred to hit things or stun them with electric batons.

Their funny gas-masks certainly were a look he was pleased that HYDRA had grown out of. He grabbed a set of keys from one of the dead HYDRA guard’s pocket and jingled them alluringly. “What say you to peeking around this area a bit?”

“You sure know how to ask a gentleman on a night on the town,” Bucky replied. The other man’s expression was colder than usual, the joke not matching up with the seriousness. “We’ll meet up with Steve along the way.”

Rumlow nodded, checking the newly stolen Luger for ammunition and then allowing Barnes to lead given their difference in rank. It was skin-deep only, but it was still an instinctual process that was beat into every single soldier worth their salt. While every soldier could operate independently, they were designed as a unit built on rank, and he knew for a fact that Barnes was a damn good soldier. He had no issue following the man into potential combat just the two of them.

They stole their way quietly down the hallway until they reached a set of stairs. They finished a quick sweep of their hallway before descending and both of them peered into cells. There they all were, all those POWs. He could identify them by uniform: British, Soviet, American, Freedom French. It was clear by their haunted looks that most had been here awhile and all of suffered either some experimentation or torture.

Rumlow silently wondered if Zola was trying to recreate the Winter Soldier serum. He then knew that the small scientist would never aim to repeat something considered ‘lower’ than Erskine. These men were products of a savage campaign to build superior soldiers to bring about world order with.

As he stared into their glassy eyes or spotting a relieved watery smile, he knew that some sacrifices were worth peace. These men, shadows of their former glory, were worth a world made free from the lie of freedom. They suffered because they fought against it, but soon, they too would understand that they would be far more than what they had become by accepting that freedom from freedom itself was worthwhile.

Everyone suffered. Some did it gracefully. Some did it with tears. Some drowned it in a bottle.

His dark eyes flicked to Barnes moving to touch hands with the soldiers, so many men realizing that an opportunity for freedom was at hand. What Barnes didn’t know was that a part of these men was already dead, just like a part of Bucky had died in that isolation room in the Austrian work camp.

“Barnes,” he called when Bucky moved to start opening the prison cell doors. “Barnes, leave it.”

Bucky turned to give him a cold look. God damn it was beautiful. “You aren’t asking me to leave them here, Corporal?”

The formality earned a snort from him. “No sir, but I am requesting you let them live longer.”

“Go on,” Barnes replied, softening slightly when he took no offense.

“This place is crawling with HYDRA soldiers, guards, scientists and snipers. We don’t even know where we’re going, sir, so I recommend you and I leave these men safe and sound on the other side of the bars. We stand a better chance together locating and eliminating opposition and finding safe passage for these men.” He knew for a fact that many of these men would die if they went as a group; hell, many of them would die regardless of their efforts. This was no place to leave one’s heart out in the open.

However, Bucky took his words seriously and looked down the line of soldiers crowded at the front of their cells. “Listen up, boys! Gather your things, tend your wounded as best you can because when Bones and I get back, we’re going to need to hustle.”

There was brief protest for being left behind, but it was quelled with a cold look from the pair of them. “If you have to stay in here and rot, you know we’ve been captured or killed. I bet you all can imagine the kind of fate waiting us if we’re caught.”

Rumlow tucked his thumbs into his belt loops and waited for Bucky to move down the line giving out the plan, asking for a general direction. He turned his head at the sound of rough German voices coming down the hallway, letting them come within sight.

Two more guards, both wearing identical uniforms and facial gear as the previous pair he and Barnes had already killed. The guards took one look at him standing there right and comfortable and then brought weapons to hand, one a stun baton, the other a MP40 submachine gun. He knew one would pack more of a punch than the other.

He brought his knife to hand, earning a stare before he blinked in front of the pair, jamming the blade just under the gun-touting guard under the mask to puncture the soft underside of jaw and up into hard palate and onwards and upwards into brain. He twisted aside from the stun baton, ramming his elbow into the eyepiece. “God you look ridiculous. Stick to the SS uniforms, assholes.”

He took a stun to the knee, just a glancing blow. He side-stepped the baton, rolling back on his heels as it swept close enough to his face that he could feel the crackle of electricity. He punched the man in the face twice and then jammed his knee into the guard’s stomach hard enough to drop the man to the floor.

His fingers closed on the helmet that had rolled off. Rumlow smirked and set a knee to the man’s chest. “Hail HYDRA…” he whispered.

The poor bastard’s eyes widened comically so. “W-why?”

“The Skull has many eyes and ears,” he replied softly.

The guard’s bloody expression cleared with a single nod of acceptance. “I die for HYDRA. I die for Herr Skull.”

“You die for everlasting peace,” he said before slammed the rim of the helmet twice into the man’s already bloody face, ending the struggles quickly. His eyes flicked up and Pierce stood watching him, calm confident smirk. Nothing changed.

He rose, taking ammunition and weapons with him as he swaggered back to the cells where Barnes was waiting for him. He nodded, ignoring the spattering of gore hot on his cheeks and handed a luger into the cell closest to him. “Use that only in an emergency. We’ll be back when we’ve cleared the way.”

There was only faint grumbling as they started off together, his black uniform suffering much the same as Barnes’ blue wool coat. They were all business after personally dealing death so close at hand. “There’s apparently a train to the West of here. It comes to bring in supplies, but I want to confirm that before we bring these guys in.”

“We need a lead on Dum-Dum and Monty, or else we’re going to find ourselves in a situation that might be slightly overwhelming,” he added, aware that their objective was and always should be for their own.

“Prisoners first,” Bucky replied, the ghost of a haunted look crossing the other man’s face.

Rumlow nodded as they began to pick their way through the maze of hallways, locked gates and stair wells. They knew that there was going to be heavy fortification over the train, given how essential it was to keeping the massive laboratory and base stocked, and no one could deny that HYDRA loved its snipers in such facilities with the endless metal gangplanks.

He and Barnes located one of the main guard stations that proved to be central for soldier exchanges, communications and observation. While Bucky tore into the opposition on the ground floor, he blinked up the ladder to the air three feet above it, only to blink again the nearest group of two snipers. He blew the face off of one, slit the throat of the other and stole their rifles.

There were eight snipers set in pairs to guard all directions, East, West, North and South. He had taken out six, earning himself a graze on his shoulder from a bullet for his efforts before Barnes had climbed the ladder and cracked the skull of one open on a communication machine before gutting the last mercilessly.

Rumlow reached up to tap his own cheek to indicate where Bucky had been sprayed with their victim’s blood before they used their higher vantage point to asses the situation. It was easy to tell which tunnel was for the train given its sheer size and the door guarding its entry and exit, which was currently open. It may or may not be lucky.

“So we found our way out with the POWs, but you can bet there are going to be guards,” he called to Barnes over at a table with paper manifests. “Should we clear first or risk bringing the others in?”

“According to the latest manifest, the train has just finished getting repairs for a blown fuse. HYDRA plans on sending it out after dark to get supplies,” the not-Soldier called over to him. “Assuming the main gate to the facility is closed, we need that train loaded up to send it off as soon as we open it.”

Rumlow shifted before he moved to gather up the rifles and ammunition from the snipers, filling as many pockets as he could and slipping rifle straps over his shoulders. He identified the rifles as the usual German type, the K98k Mauser, but all of these had scope attachments. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing for moving that amount of people.

“I’m going ahead to see if I can open any more doors and the fastest way to that tunnel. I’ll meet you back at the prison cells before you’ve gotten them all open and gathered,” Barnes said. It wasn’t an invitation for any form of protest, so he gave none.

Instead, he lugged the standard Mauser rifles back to the path that they had taken, pausing to listen for signs of soldiers infiltrating the area. He made it back to the cells without issue, and he found himself greeted by standing grim-faced, determined men. A Mauser rifle went into each cell before he retrieved the key from one of the bodies to open each lock.

Rumlow tried to get a proper head-count, but the men were chomping at the bit to get out of this hallway. He could communicate with the English-speakers and a few of those knew bits and pieces of words of the other languages, which was probably the only reason that the group stayed together. He’d hate to have beat any of them, but he would if they jeopardized the mission.

_"You idiots! Recapture the prisoner at all costs! We build an army from his blood!"_

Rumlow glanced up towards the shrieking berating female voice, though he had no idea who she was. A lot of the Skull's close associates faded into history and were generally ignored for the sake of how big a shadow that Schmidt cast. Zola had been one of the few to not disappear, what with the man's capture and then feigned defection to SHIELD. He was admittedly curious of who she was, but he would only look into the matter when time and opportunity permitted.

Bucky was prowling down the hallway once he had ascertained how many truly wounded there were in the hundred-or-so prisoners. He noted there was new drying blood on Barnes’ uniform, but he asked no questions on whose it was. The Soldier he knew from the future admitted no pain during a mission.

“Come on, we need that train loaded quickly,” Barnes said and together they moved as a rag-tag group.

This reminded him personally of moving through the forest woods of Austria back to the Italian line. There was very little talking, and he kept to the rear of the group as Barnes lead the way to the train. They came to a stop in the tunnel and it took him some time to realize that Bucky was sending the men in groups of ten to the train, letting them load up before sending the next group. The first to go were the healthiest; the last were those who could barely stand or required assistance.

The strong would survive and the weak would die if the alarm was raised. A harsh but required reality.

“Bones, there’s a switch to open the main gate on the south side,” Barnes told him. “Go and open the gate.”

“We going with these guys?”

There was a moment of indecision that crossed the brunette’s blood-spattered face. They both knew that if they left, Steve would be fighting through this entire facility alone looking for Falsworth and Dugan (and no doubt them). If they went with the released prisoners, it would more likely guarantee their safety out of this hellhole. They would easily earn Medals of Honor for their actions, but neither of them were interested in what command thought of them.

“What say you,” Bucky finally asked.

“I’m not about to leave Dugan and Falsworth to whoever that woman is,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I want to find Zola,” Bucky admitted, a hint of steel tightening the other man’s voice. “I’ve seen the face of his ‘evolution’, and no one should have to endure it.”

Rumlow nodded his head in understanding. “So, we ship these guys out to make their own way?”

“We have to,” Barnes said heavily.

“Then we find a HYDRA long-range wall communicator and see if we can’t just ring up Agent Carter to get some SSR people to that train before it runs into trouble.” He had seen at least one on the wall, and it would be a matter of breaking the HYDRA codes that kept those devices private. He had a feeling he would excel that that.

So it was with a glance of agreement they sent the last group to the train and made no motion to follow. Instead, they separated from each other to climb to opposite vantage points on the North and South side to remove any obstacles to hindering the POW’s escape.

In watching the train slip around the corner of the treed area with the corpses of sniped HYDRA sentries, Rumlow wondered if he was going to have to harm Barnes to keep Zola safe or if he too would join in any rough capture. He could, after all, break Zola back out assuming he could gain access to the Swiss scientists if the man fell into the SSR’s hands.

Perhaps he’d simply deliver the Howling Commandos to Schmidt today rather than wait. Perhaps if he delivered Barnes first then Steve would be too distracted on a rescue mission to see the betrayal coming.

“Bones, let’s go,” Barnes called from across the tracks, voice faint from distance.

Rumlow left his post over looking the now empty train tracks and walked back to the ledge where he could see Bucky waiting. He translocated over to the brunette and they set off back to the way that they had come to move deeper into the massive facility in search of their companions.

Two shorted out locks, several long square hallways and four dead HYDRA soldiers later, they actually managed to find one of HYDRA’s wall-mounted radios. Their uniforms by now were spattered with blood from their close-quarter knife work, and he watched Barnes wipe at the stuff as he worked on figuring out the HYDRA code to allow them to communicate out.

It was a relatively simple puzzle of matching codes, and he mused that codes had come a long way since the Second Great War. Of course, he didn’t mind as it let them radio out in search of allies and after several tries, Bucky was greeted by Agent Carter, who sounded both professionally peeved at them and coolly relieved at their survival and tenacity.

“Pegs, Rumlow and I sent a train full of POWs from the Western gate, but it’s going to need some backup. There’s approximately one hundred men, but at least twenty are in bad enough health that they require immediate intervention for survival.” Bucky leaned closer to the communication unit, scratching at some dried blood.

“I have surveillance on this train, Sergeant,” Peggy replied with an air of distraction before there was a static-filled silence as she clearly ordered someone else in the room with her off. “We have a team moving to their location now.”

“They have nine German-issue sniper rifles,” Bucky added.

“Roger that,” Peggy answered.

Bucky looked over at him where he was standing guard watching up and down the hallway they were standing in. “Any contact with Steve, Agent Carter?”

“Oh, you know Steve, he’s escaped containment and is currently wrecking the place looking around. He indicated that he was going to take out the rest of the anti-aircraft weaponry so that we could get allied bombers in to airstrike.” Her voice was crisp as it always was when discussing Steve. The power of her belief that the man would do exactly that was a hardness few possessed.

“Bones and I are going to locate Dugan and Falsworth,” Bucky informed her.

“Very good and once you have them, you’ve been instructed to evacuate,” Agent Carter replied.

“After we find Zola,” he reminded Barnes. He was waved off with a hand.

“Are there any documents that the SSR is in need of that we can carry easily,” Bucky asked instead, clearly avoiding the whole mess of defying a direct order. Zola was personal. That much was clear.

There was radio silence for a few moments and he moved over to make certain that the connection hadn’t been lost. It wasn’t, but both of them knew that staying in one place was highly dangerous. They were far too exposed and their handy work was obvious all over the place in the form of HYDRA soldier bodies.

“Sergeant, Colonel Phillips has requested any information on HYDRA technology and location of their parts bases if possible.” So that was the mission then.

“Roger that, Pegs.”

“Sergeant… Bucky, don’t you and the Corporal get killed. Steve would be terribly disappointed,” Agent Carter ordered sternly. He wondered if she and Steve had spoken about the risk the blond had taken for Bucky and she understood how lost Steve would be without Bucky.

“Yes ma’am. Over and out,” Bucky replied and then promptly destroyed the radio with a few bullets. It probably would have been more effective with a metal hand punching it.

Bucky stepped away from the radio and gestured at him to fall in line like they had been doing while pacing this place. They began their hunt for both allied comrades and Zola, and it was amazing that such a large facility even existed. Clearly, the Zemo family had more than a castle and acreage; they had invested considerable time and effort building this place, no doubt more so when HYDRA had formed out the SS ranks. It was easy to get lost both in the hallways and in the great massive rooms with their near impossible infrastructure and many pipes.

For now, he and Barnes moved carefully but quickly down the hallway, peeking around corners and listening for guards. They soon left the train servicing area and entered into what was probably the experimental wing of this fortress. They moved through, the groan of pipes or the occasional rapid fire of orders in German or English sounding off where they needed to go. As much as they could, they tried to avoid combat but still took numbers of the HYDRA guards in the area. Some were unavoidable combat situations, and the only particular conversation during or after between himself and Barnes was to list the number of their kills and to compile the new stock of weapons, which still continued to remain little.

Eventually, Rumlow found himself strapping on a pair of stun batons, their holsters riding on his thighs and their activation easy enough where he figured it out on his own. HYDRA footsoldiers seemed to enjoy these weapons over guns or even knives. He decided after the fourth group of guards that he wanted to know what the fuss was about with these things.

It was silently agreed that they had to start avoiding combat situations given how many they were getting engaged in. So began the slide through the experimental facility by him sneaking into doorways, assessing the rooms and then blinking him and Barnes across to another doorway or a hallway. Over and over, avoiding as much combat as they could as they headed deeper and deeper into HYDRA labyrinth in search of Zola, which Bucky was still insisting they take out.

Rumlow didn’t complain as they skirted rooms and his level of exhaustion rose by their fifteenth jump. It wasn’t anywhere close to the maximum he had done on the battlefield, but it was far beyond what he had done with another person. Barnes seemed no worse for wear; no, instead, the Sergeant’s energy seemed to brim higher and higher with the transport.

Finally, they stepped out into a massive gaping room with multiple platforms connected by stairs. The gangplank that they ended up on was clearly a guarding station or to provide access for soldiers to move about rather than any kind of transport of sensitive goods. Those were all happening on the lower floors where elevators serviced them. Machines hummed, pipes gurgled and the air was cooler here.

They had to lay on their bellies and crawl across the floor to the edge in order to survey the contents of this massive room of rock, steel and wires. There were voices that echoed from the walls, and it was almost a relief to catch his breath despite the hazards of being out in the open. He glanced around for signs of sniper positions, but in this room, it was impossible to tell without a scope of his own to do a sweep. Barnes was entirely focused over the ledge to the floor below.

Beyond their position high up, the object of their intent search had appeared. It was Zola with a small group of underlings, all gathered around a large console which was currently smoking. There was too much distance between them and the Swiss scientist to hear what was being said, but he felt the tension in Barnes' shoulders as the brunette recognized the scientist who had had such a hand in their suffering in Austria. He set a hand to Bucky's shoulder, squeezing to keep the Sergeant on task. Killing Zola would ruin a few too many plans for everyone, not just himself.

The laboratory area was large, a circle of equipment and wiring to their right. Part of the lab was built right into the rock, though everything was protected and reinforced with steel beams or sheets. Oddly enough, there were several cradles similar to the ones where he knew Steve had changed from the skinny tenacious blond to the super-soldier they all knew today. Each cradle was suspended in some kind of hydraulic lift and powered from thick wires that hung from the ceiling. Of the four that were visible from their vantage point, two were closed.

To the left of the main lab and Zola himself was a long line of consoles, large humming generators and experiment tables that looked about as homely to lay in as sleeping in an iron maiden. Two of the tables were occupied with bodies lying unconscious in it, and he'd recognize that bowler hat anywhere. That meant the other was their British commando.

He patted Barnes on the shoulder and gestured to the table where Dum-Dum and Monty lay slack and pale, but it wasn't necessary as Bucky had already made an assessment of the situation. It would be easy with his ability to cross the distance to the scientists, but they were probably armed regardless. The original objective was to capture, but he couldn't imagine lugging around any of those men along with their allies.

"Plan," he asked Barnes in a low whisper.

"Zola is the key objective, the other scientists are optional," Bucky replied evenly. "We take the scientists first, then free Dum-Dum and Monty."

"The suspended cradles?" He personally wasn't so keen to know what was being grown up inside of them. It couldn't be good.

Bucky took the time to study the cradles silently for a time and then glanced back at him. "Leave them last. If it's as ugly as HYDRA's usual projects are, it might be better to light it up with fire."

Rumlow huffed softly. "I happen to think you and I are perfectly handsome projects."

"Me, yes, but you... sometimes I think fire would improve your appearance," Bucky replied with a hint of competitive cheekiness.

He growled and poked Barnes in the back. "Five bucks to whoever gets Zola captured?"

"Deal," Bucky said. They shook on the wager before starting to creep to their feet in the shadow of a massive pipe.

_"Idiots, your failure is disgusting! I'll see you before Herr Skull explaining this continued substandard skill!"_

Before the shrieking woman had finished her public and rather loud berating sentences, he grabbed the back of Barnes' neck and gathered his energy. The flicker of blue light that surrounded them drew attention of one of the scientists, but they both were across the distance before the man could raise the alarm to their proximity and danger.

“...much power…”

“Clearly a failure…”

Bucky stepped away from the dissipating blue energy that marked their translocation to seize the one scientist around the chest with one arm while the other brought a knife to the spooked man’s throat. The threat was obvious that Barnes would slit the scientist’s throat but also clearly had a body shield to use against Zola.

Zola, of course, looked momentarily betrayed by his appearance before noting Barnes. Then the Swiss doctor reached up to adjust spectacles and glared at the other assistant who seemed shocked to see a gun pointed in their direction by him.

“Doctor Zola… who…?” The assistant was slowly getting over the shock and looking between the pair of them.

“My two marginal successes,” Zola replied before shooting them an oily smile. “I have improved with the blood of the Captain.”

Rumlow smirked and glanced at Barnes who looked about ready to shoot over at the Swiss scientist to stab the little man in the face. “You’re our prisoner, that’s what you are,” he replied silkily as he lifted his rifle barrel pointedly at Zola.

“Is that so?”

The console next to them put out more smoke and crackled with electricity, and Rumlow had no hesitation to put a bullet in the assistant’s brain when Zola darted forward to slam a hand down on several levers on the damaged console. Sparks flew and there was the harsh grinding of metal, made worse by the fallen body of the assistant hitting the other console.

Behind Barnes, two of the cradles on the wall opened and deposited twisted slim bodies on the ground. Each issued a screaming breath and neither could be considered the epitome of improvement given that he and Barnes could at least move under their own volition.

Yet, Zola still turned and abandoned these apparent improvements to take off. He flipped his rifle to settle on his back as he translocated himself to block the Swiss scientist as Bucky threw aside the assistant unharmed to give chase. The Swiss scientist did not appear surprised, but gave him a watery eyed glare.

Rumlow pulled out one of the stun batons. “That’s as far as you go.”

“Herr Skull is coming…” Zola remarked while scrambling back, looking hilariously like an angry crab.

“The Red Skull,” Bucky demanded, glancing at him.

Behind his back, the two slim altered figures had stumbled to their feet, clutching their heads and breathing loudly. They issued twin pathetic moans, and one lost its balance to hit a console, which exploded in flame and sparks of electricity. He did not take his attention from Zola, figuring the pathetic experiments would wear themselves out. Their masks faces hadn’t made it clear that they could even see.

“We can use Zola to lure the Skull,” Rumlow finally said after contemplation. “He’ll obviously want to see your work, now won’t he?”

“We’ll show him something that will tickle him alright,” Bucky said, voice positively frosty.

Zola looked between them, measuring his chances of course and backing up to a console. Slowly the Swiss scientist raised his hands in surrender, but Zola kept glancing to the right at the poor bastards slowly seeming to recover their coordination. “I was assigned this project after making gains with you. _’Improve human evolution as a whole,’_ he told me, and so I have worked tirelessly on that end.”

“Save the explanations for SSR interrogation,” Barnes snapped.

“You,” Zola remarked, pointing a finger at Bucky. “You are a success, not like the others. The others flagged in their strength, but you… it’s odd how you kept your identity intact while your body changed around you. Everyone else lost pieces, not you. Why is that, Sergeant Barnes?”

“No need to answer, Serge,” Rumlow stated coolly, taking a threatening step towards Zola.

“I’m aware of that,” Bucky said but was eyeing the Swiss scientist with a cold defiance, as if answering would vindicate some guilt that had clung to the other sniper. “I had something to live for.”

“Fascinating… what was it?”

“To stop HYDRA,” Bucky said while fingering the hilt of that stiletto.

“Ah, Sergeant Barnes, that’s where you and your companions are mistaken. You cannot stop HYDRA,” Zola said in a matter-of-fact voice. “HYDRA is an ideal, and so long as a single individual finds themselves believing, HYDRA cannot be defeated. We will make better men and women because the world deserves to be better.”

Bucky hissed like an angry snake, winding up as if to strike. “We’ll stop you!”

“Barnes, we need him alive,” Rumlow reminded sharply.

Rumlow shifted, finally flicking some of his attention to the two poor bastards who were once again clutching their heads and the odd helmets that they wore. Those too were sparking. It was lucky this place was made of cement and underground or they’d have a horrible fire blazing.

“MY LIFE FOR HYDRA!”

His attention snapped back as the assistant that Bucky had thrown aside used their divided attention to leap upon Barnes’ back and wrap arms around the other man’s neck to jerk Bucky right off balance into the sparking console. A blaring alarm filled the air in response, causing the two subjects to begin shrieking like banshees.

Bucky was twisting and fighting with the assistant and Zola’s hand was suddenly on his knee. He looked down at the Swiss scientist.

“Did you know that the super-soldier serum turns blue when completed?” Zola lifted a slim blond eyebrow at him.

“What?”

“Blue like the Tesseract,” Zola clarified. “Unending power, Corporal. Sound familiar?”

Rumlow made a show of kicking Zola’s away from him, swinging his stun baton but purposefully missing as he drove the man off. Those words sunk his stomach, though he couldn’t entirely fathom why that would be.

However, they had far more pressing issues arising as the two freed subjects had ceased their screaming, but they were attracted to the struggle between Barnes and the assistant. He turned to face the pair, his eyes narrowing at the odd glow that surrounded each of the subjects as they shambled forward, breathing loudly, their hands twitching. Somehow, they seemed to be gathering themselves, yet their full helmets couldn’t possibly allow them to see a target.

He shifted his footing and made a swing for Zola who had risen and ran headlong towards the failed experiments. “That’s suicide, you piece of shit!”

Yet, Zola made it, slipping between the pair who simply shambled closer to his location. There was a single glance back at him as he flipped the stun batons on, a low hum vibrating his hands even if he couldn’t hear the noise that they made over the blaring alarm.

Suddenly the assistant’s body flew ass over tea kettle, landing comically splay legged in front of the pair of freed experiments. The one on the left drove out a hand, which reminded him of some kind of eighties cartoons he had entertained himself with. However, the effect was very much the same as energy slammed into the balding man and sent him careening head first into one of the open cradles. The assistant lay very still, head bent at an odd angle.

Rumlow thought that having a stun baton was not potent enough weapon as he backed up, hissing between his teeth as a shot of energy was aimed at him, forcing him to dive and roll. He found himself brought up at Barnes’ feet.

“This is madness,” Bucky yelled.

“This is HYDRA experimentation at its most flawed,” he replied as he got to his feet.

“How do we stop them?”

“I suspect shooting them in the face will work,” Rumlow managed to get out before grabbing Barnes around the legs and blinking them to another part area to avoid getting doubly blasted with energy. That computer behind them console never stood a chance.

_Attention all laboratory personnel. There is a Code 12 evacuation in progress. Several experiments have escaped containment. Armoured security is en route._

That Zola! What an itch to his ass! This was the last time he cleaned up the Swiss bastard’s messes for the service of HYDRA! At least the guy could have been a gent and told him where Steve was, so it would be easier to get the whole crew back together. It also allowed him to ignore the niggling unease about the super soldier serum. Why was it even bothering him?

“Bones!”

Bucky grabbed him, pulling him down to the floor as an energy bolt flew over their heads. The specimen on the right suddenly threw its hands up to its face afterwards and shrieked, the helmet sparking. “Barnes go! Kill it!”

Rumlow rolled to his feet as Bucky sprinted the distance, and he gathered his energy and just held it, attracting the attention of the second experiment. It shuffled forward, abandoning its fellow to Barnes, clearly attracted by his energy. He held it longer, feeling it gather around him in crackling blue wisps.

Suddenly, he felt hands on his shoulders and an old familiar voice whispering in his ear. “Every key opens a lock.”

_Pierce._

He couldn’t look away as a wave of energy was shot at him, and instead of contesting it with his own form of energy, he blinked to the right ten feet. The stirred up air still hit him as he threw one of his stun batons, hitting the energy shield and bouncing off harmlessly.

Barnes was busy knifing the other experimental subject, clinging the the poor things back and stabbing it in the neck repeatedly before jerking its head to the side violently. Humans weren’t actually physically capable of easily snapping someone’s neck; there was too many muscles, tendons and the formation of bone in that area, yet he watched Bucky wrench hard enough to accomplish the task with an audible crack.

Evolution indeed....

Rumlow’s target was suddenly shrieking and head clutching as well, and he immediately blinked over as he pulled his acquired K98k Mauser sniper rifle from his shoulder and, point blank, unloaded two bullets under the creature’s jaw with two snaps of the trigger. He only then noted the very odd unhealthy purple cast to the once-a-man’s skin as it fell to the ground in silence. Hot blood and brains spattered his face; he made no motion to wipe it off.

_Every key opens a lock?_ What did that even mean?

He shook his head, ignoring Bucky’s look of inquiry and instead moved to the other side of the lab where Zola had escaped and where Falsworth and Dugan were still chained down to the tables. It was only a small blessing the men couldn’t move and hadn’t been drawn into the conflict.

“Dum-Dum, Monty, you two have had a long enough R-and-R,” he said as he examined the restraints on Dugan while Bucky was at Falsworth’s table.

“Just five more minutes, mom,” Dugan muttered, opening eyes to peer at him. “Ugh mom, when did you get so manly?”

Rumlow smirked as he hit the mechanism - blessedly working still - to release the restraints and helped Dugan up. “I guess it was that handsome Italian-America I let up my skirts not long go… rubbed off on me.”

Dugan’s face purpled and the man took a playful swing at him. “You’re an asshole, ‘Coon.”

Suddenly the loud speakers came to life with a new male voice: _”Attention all laboratory personnel. The super soldier has been spotted in the upper labs. You have one minute to reach emergency exits before you are sealed inside. Should you fail, know you die in service of HYDRA.”_

They were all looking at the speakers before glancing at one another. They all reached the same conclusion that Steve was fighting towards their location, but he and Barnes exchanged a look on how many of those _experiments_ Steve might run into along the way. They had only tangled with two, but surely there were more?

“Damn HYDRA loyalists…” Dugan muttered, moving around to work out the kinks. “All we heard was service to HYDRA this, dying for HYDRA that. They need to get a damn good shake. Loyalty runs scarily deep on them. Biggest fascists around.”

Rumlow was not easily baited into the numerous debates about why HYDRA and now the Hitler Youth were so enthusiastically loyal to their causes. He had heard all of this before; he simply was of the opinion that he was no different from any other soldier voluntarily fighting for their country. Everyone had to fight for something.

“The sooner we put this sick animal called HYDRA down, the better for everyone,” Falsworth said, weighing in as the blond struggled to get around.

“Hey, these chumps are human too,” Barnes said.

“What, you think HYDRA soldiers are like the others?” Dugan raised an eyebrow.

“Well sure, how can they not be? They just need something to believe in I guess. Probably grew up on the wrong side of the tracks to start, got pulled in young. Brainwashed that this was worthwhile for them to throw their lives away to.” Bucky shrugged and glanced around at the rest of them. “Will you die for your country?”

“That’s different…” Dugan muttered.

“How?” Rumlow looked at Dugan, his face still a mess of someone else’s blood and brain matter. “How is it different?”

“We’re fighting against complete world dominion by a fascist regime,” Falsworth said. The British Commando was doing stretches and looking like the man might collapse at any moment. They wouldn’t leave until they knew Falsworth could walk. “HYDRA wants the same thing, complete world domination.”

Rumlow rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand. “But what if the world would be better under a single government? All those border skirmishes, all the clan wars, all the interracial hostility, all of it dealt with by a single ruling government who had one idea in mind: peace through order.”

Everyone was staring at him, and he sighed heavily. However, it was Bucky who simply said, “We’ve all suffered; war is about suffering. No one wins, just the losses are a bit less for some.”

“HYDRA will lose everything,” Falsworth muttered thickly.

“Or win everything,” Dugan interjected. “They won’t half-ass it. However, I won’t ever stop fighting until the war is over.”

They all nodded in agreement even if Rumlow glanced away to regard the lab and the pathetically skinny experiments which lay in a pool of blood. They had given their lives, their very everything to improve on HYDRA’s soldiers and had paid the ultimate price. He knew that none of those creatures were forced into that service; no doubt, the volunteer list had been massive.

So he had to ask himself: would he volunteer for questionable experimentation to further HYDRA’s goals?

He looked at his bloody bare hands, his uneven nails blackened by dirt, his dark uniform sleeves fraying. There were whirls of thickened calluses on his hands from years of holding a gun or a knife, and his knuckles were chauffed from all the times he has punched others. Yet, when he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together to remove some dirt, a spark of blue energy jumped from them.

Would he volunteer for questionable experimentation to further HYDRA’s goals? He already had.

Rumlow found Barnes watching him quietly as Dugan and Falsworth gathered up HYDRA weapons, and he managed a smirk at the Soldier. Now all four of them had greater experience with the unsettled waters that was HYDRA policy and experimentation. He wondered if Dum-Dum and Falsworth would someday develop strange subtle powers like Barnes or outrageous ones like him and Rogers.

Falsworth, despite looking pale and exhausted, hefted modified K98k Mauser rifle, a long line of glowing blue energy from the butt of the gun to the nose. It was all smooth metal rather than the usual wooden lacquered base, but it was clearly lighter with how easily Falsworth hefted it.

However, the lieutenant was in good enough spirits to take on the command role. “Right men, we move out and get the lift working. Captain Rogers should be toddling along at his usual factory destroying pace, and we’ll not be seen as slackers to destruction.”

“I will never miss how subtle we are,” Rumlow muttered with a shake of his head.

“With your new war paint, you are completely subtle,” Dugan replied with a clap on his back before heading off with the most ludicrous two-handed electric blasting weapon he had ever seen. Sure, subtle.

They headed off as a group, Dugan, him and Barnes up front in a line of three and Falsworth covering their backs. The formation changed when they reached the lift, which was clearly just lacking for power from all the explosions. Dugan proved how effective the energy pulse gun was by reducing a HYDRA soldier to a smear.

Rumlow took a turn at working to cables and decrypting the HYDRA security blockage which was diverting power. Again, it was a relatively simple puzzle, not exactly the highlight of HYDRA innovation, and they had the lift running and were in the process of piling on it when a familiar star-spangled uniform appeared in the lab they had already fought their way through.

Steve was grinning at them as the blond ran up, all of them issuing various noises of greeting. “Fellas,” Steve greeted them.

“Where have you been? We’ve been freeing prisoners and beating down HYDRA,” Barnes said, sounding very much like the mud-hen he had teased the Soldier about.

“What can I say? I was a little woozy from the blood loss, but I picked up my pace when I heard there was destruction in places I hadn’t yet been to,” Steve said and climbed on the lift with them, clapping each Commando on the arm as if to assure that they actually were all there.

Dugan huffed. “Thought you only gave blood for the SSR.”

“Well, it wasn’t by choice,” their Captain said good-naturedly.

Rumlow reached out and pulled down the lever to start the lift to the upper level. He caught Steve’s eye and winked at the blond, ignoring the slightly concerned look for the blood all over his face and uniform. Very little of it was actually his, and they hadn’t the time or luxury of stopping to tend graze injuries and bruises.

“Zola seems to think he has a working super soldier serum,” Bucky chimed in to focus them.

Steve hefted that round shield as the lift came to a stop and looked back at them. “Information states that the Skull’s zeppelin is in the air space as well, approaching this facility. We need to get to Zola before he can hand off the serum. Capturing both would just put a feather in Phillip’s cap.”

“Hey Cap, who was that screeching woman over the comms?” He wasn’t referring to Agent Carter.

“They referred to her as Madam Hydra, and she’s quite the trigger-happy sadist. She’s clearly one of the Skull’s right-hands, right up there with Baron von Strucker,” Steve replied as they formed an arrow formation to head down the hallway.

Baron von Strucker? No, that couldn’t be. It was clearly just a name that had passed down generations and not actually the head of HYDRA who had sent him back to this time. HYDRA agents just enjoyed naming their prodigies after themselves, and with von Strucker’s obsession with good blood and nobility, it was clearly just a coincidence.

He shook his head, eliminating the possibility as they fought their way through the facility, unable and perhaps unwilling to keep a low-profile. They arrived at a bottom level of another attachment of the facility in time to look up at the Red Skull arriving, and he shifted forward, focusing on the distance before Steve’s hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“Rumlow, no,” the Captain stated. “We stay together.”

“I can get him. It’s not that far,” Rumlow replied, even if he couldn’t slip a direct order.

Steve glanced up the distance, measuring it and no doubt calculating how difficult a fall that would be for anyone but him to handle. The Skull could be seen walking along the gangplank to enter deeper in the facility with Zola, and their window of opportunity was fading.

“Falsworth, get the rest of the team up to that platform,” Steve finally ordered. “Rumlow, you’re taking me with you.”

It was like fate had opened up. With Steve in the Skull’s hands, the rest of the Commandos would not be hard to collect. It was Captain America which was the most difficult element to predict, as already proven when Steve had escaped after being blood-let and run amok in this facility. His heart rate picked up and he set his nerves as he nodded his head to acknowledge the order. The war could be over far sooner than June 6th.

Rumlow reached out and grabbed Steve’s waist, looking up the distance to the gangplank. He drew a deep breath and held it as he gathered his energy, estimated the blink range and took them between those distances.

_When it’s blue, you’ll be good as new.  
Every key opens a lock._

Their feet settled on the open metal mesh, and like Barnes, Steve was so easy to transport that it was eerie for him. He instead focused on the Skull who was in their sights, waving a hand while clearly discussing some matter or another. It was Zola who looked back, sighted them and narrowed his eyes as if all of this was yet another betrayal.

Steve abandoned him to charge down the gangplank as the Skull whirled around, but Rumlow transplanted himself behind the HYDRA pair, cutting off their escape as he lifted his Mauser rifle level with Zola’s head.

“Ah Captain, I had hoped that we would meet up again soon,” Johann said, a cruel smile twisting the man’s mouth. “Zola was just about to deliver the super soldier serum to me, but why bother with that when I can have the man himself?”

“It’s over, Skull. You’ve got nowhere to go,” Steve said coldly.

“Don’t I?”

Everyone except perhaps Schmidt himself was shocked when the Skull suddenly shoved Zola at Steve, who caught the Swiss scientist and held fast. Almost in the same moment, Schmidt flicked a small glowing disc, no bigger than an American silver dollar, at him, and when he batted it aside, pain immobilized him and exploded blue energy around him, warping the safety railings on either side of him.

It was impossible to breathe, just like when he had been transported back to this time. He thought he might vomit right there on the gangplank, but he was never given the opportunity to bend over to assume that position. Instead, he felt leather clad fingers gripping his hair, the heat of them easily warming his scalp, and it was excellent contrast to the freezing cold barrel of the plain luger that settled under his chin.

“Now we both have prisoners, Captain,” the Skull remarked, tightening the grip on his hair. He finally managed to inhale a gulping breath, the disc clattering to the gangplank with its energy expended. “Do you suppose your transport mule can teleport faster than a bullet can leave the chamber of my luger?”

Steve narrowed eyes but held fast on Zola. He knew that Steve had a M41 sidearm, but it wasn’t in hand and the shield was a more or less inappropriate weapon for doing anything than braining someone in close quarters.

The Skull had the obvious upper hand. All of them knew it too.

“What do you propose then? I won’t give myself up,” Steve growled, giving Zola a little threatening shake. To his credit, Arnim didn’t make a sound.

“An exchange then,” the Skull replied silkily. “Your man for mine. We release them at the same time and you let myself and the good Doctor leave through that door.”

Rumlow managed to shake his head a little, which earned a jerk on his hair and the Skull to hiss angrily in his ear. “Don’t do it, Captain.” A part of him suspected that Johann wouldn’t shoot him, at least not mortally. He knew for a fact that the Skull would fire, and he had no doubt that Steve knew it too.

“Fine, an exchange, but once you’re through that door, I’m coming for you,” Steve said. “And you cannot shoot my man in the exchange.”

“Such noble sentiments. We release on three, Captain,” the Skull said, slowly releasing the grip on his hair while whispering behind his head. “And remember Corporal, you owe me the entire platoon. It was good to see you well again.”

“One,” Steve said.

“Two,” the Skull replied.

“Three,” the pair of super soldiers said in unison.

Schmidt was actually the first to release him, pushing him almost gently towards Steve and it was only then that the blond relinquished Zola, who made far faster progress back to the Skull than he did. His legs felt leaden as he moved, dragging his boots across the gangplank and Steve immediately moved to him, only to have to raise the shield when the Skull fired at the other super soldier. Well… that hadn’t been part of the deal.

Then pain lit up on his thigh as the Skull shot him, and he dropped to the metal hard, bruising his knees. Wounded enough to slow Steve, not wounded enough to be taken from the unit for long or kill him. The pain also woke him from the fog that had clouded his mind since the disc, and he rolled onto his side to clutch at his injury.

“Goddamn it, Skull, you promised,” Steve shouted, no doubt just to spit something at Schmidt.

“I lied, Captain,” the Skull replied and disappeared with a single glance down at him. He and Schmidt knew it was never part of the deal. He wasn’t Steve’s man; he was Schmidt’s.

Hot blood coated his fingers as he applied pressure to the wound, but Steve was right there next to him, batting his hand away to look. He shook his head, arching in both pain and frustration. “Go, leave me and get the Skull.”

“You could bleed out,” Steve snapped.

“You could win the fucking war, Rogers,” he roared at the blond.

Steve looked at him for a long moment before shrugging off the spangled reinforced jacket and pulling off the white undershirt, handing it to him. Then the blond was dressing quickly again as he tore the shirt into strips to wrap tightly around his leg. The war was bigger than any man, and Steve indeed recognized it even as the conflict stormed in those blue eyes. Leaving a man behind was against everything that Steve stood for, but not doing so now could cost the Allies more than a wounded soldier. It could cost them the super soldier formula, the Red Skull, and Arnim Zola.

Captain America left him there on the gangplank without another word, but the promise to return was obvious. Rumlow let his head fall back on the metal as pain circulated like angry bees through his leg, but he managed to roll over. He’d been shot before; he knew what it was like, knew that the pain would mount as the swelling began to set in after.

He managed to roll himself further to both of his hands and one knee, reaching for the warped railing and failing to grasp it. He fell on his elbows and found himself face-to-face with the little offending disc that the Skull had thrown and immobilized him with. He picked it up and turned it over in his bloody fingers. The blood - _his blood_ \- was absorbed into the metal.

Slowly, he tucked the little disc into his jacket pocket and made another attempt to rise. This time he caught the railing and hauled himself up, limping over to his fallen Mauser.

There was sound of combat ahead. He headed towards it grimly, blood soaking through the pristine whiteness of Captain America’s shirt.

*****  
 **London, England - April 1944**  


“Well, at least he didn’t shoot you in your smart ass,” Dugan said, dealing out some cards on his infirmary bed.

“God forbid,” Rumlow replied good-naturedly. “Did you at least bring me a souvenir?”

“Oh yeah, of course,” Morita replied and dug around in a pack, only to produce a grimy smelly sock and settling it down on the clean bedding. “I made this for you. Wore it for days on end.”

He huffed a sour note as Jones issued a disgusted noise. “Maybe you can use it for a bandage, Rumlow.”

“And die from infection? No way.”

He rolled his eyes and picked up his cards, leafing through them as the other five men did the same. It was crowded around his bed, but the boys had been kind enough to leave all the booze in their kitpacks rather than risk the ire of the field nurses. Already Dugan, Morita and Dernier had flirted with any that came within range, but that’s what being a bachelor earned any potential dame.

They played a few games of poker and he bellyached about his leg hurting for the sake of it. He had long ago gotten used to pain and the healing process. What bothered him more was being off his feet for so long when he could limp around just fine.

Their mission was a partial success anyway. Steve had destroyed all of the super soldier formula, but had been unable to capture the Red Skull or Zola. Their Captain had fought a strange exoskeleton suit, which he knew from history was designed by Zola. Almost all the Zemo facility was bombed, which earned considerable attention from the German air force and they had been forced to pull back.

Dugan and Falsworth hadn’t expressed any strangeness from being experimented on, and the pair didn’t seem to find the limited details of their foray into HYDRA science as anything to jump around about. They didn’t remember if they had been injected with anything beyond sedatives, but he suspected that they had. Time would tell if they manifested.

He folded his current hand and then his hands behind his head, stretching. “Any word on our next mission?”

“You’ve asked that four times,” Jones replied with a smile that showed white teeth.

“I happen to know you jerks are holding out on me,” he replied. “Come on, out with it. I’m not going to be bedridden forever. I was shot, not mauled.”

Morita snorted, but there was an unspoken heaviness to the air. His ability to move himself was huge and to know it could be sabotaged had been only between them. They couldn’t discuss it outside of the team because no one knew about it, outside of Agent Carter of course, and he didn’t think she would talk either.

Dugan gathered up the cards and began to shuffle the deck. Morita whistled at a passing nurse and Jones decided to fuss with the corner of his blanket.

“So…?”

“We’re being held in England,” Jones finally replied to his inquiries.Everyone else just shuffled their shoulders. “Something big is coming down the line, and everyone is being shuffled off to train heavily for the next few weeks. Apparently the training has already been going on for weeks to years. Amphibious landings.”

Rumlow frowned and sighed as he leaned into his pillow. “Seems like Britain is going to get mighty crowded.”

Dugan dealt them all another hand.

So, Operation Overlord was full steam ahead, was it? Good, he wanted this charade over with sooner than later. His leg twinged with an ache of pain as he shifted. There was only order to be found in pain, and already, it sharpened his thoughts as he began to plot their next and probably last combat mission as free men.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last Commando mission-based chapter. The labeling on this fic will be changing to include new warnings. Our happy foray into Commando adventures ends with this chapter and into the real war we go. Let's hope it's a fun ride.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read my work, and I appreciate any comments and kudos that I receive!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the main event so to speak. Like a few chapters before it, there are descriptions of violent warfare. This chapter takes place leading up and on D-Day, though for the purpose of this story, some details have been changed in order to fit in with the plot.

*****  
**Portland, England - May 1944**  


Steve found himself in the same position that he had been in for the last week, which was bent over a table of black and white photos of a long sandy beach and steep cliffs. There were dots of the black Belgian gates where the ocean clearly rolled onto the beach, and he knew from his intensive study from the day before that another of the large metal crosses had appeared. While the Germans couldn’t possibly know that they were coming, Hitler was fortifying every stretch of beach little-by-little.

With the end of May fast approaching, he found himself being debriefed and then debriefed again as small details changed or equipment was being moved. While the two major camps - British and American - were working together, their manner of equipment was vastly different as well as the area in which they would cover. Every single detail was down to be accounted for with surveillance photos and the utmost secrecy was still in place.

Half of the soldiers who were gathering in the wide countryside around Portland had no idea where they were going or even the date of launch. Even the personnel was a secret, scattered in small groups of platoons and the apparent vehicles for transport were carefully hidden under tarps unless being shifted, but it was never clustered together in any one place either. The massive amounts of gathered sea-worthy ships were also carefully hidden in little nooks and crannies along the British coastline.

The Royal Air Force had achieved air supremacy, which limited fly overs for possible German surveillance. The Atlantic Ocean was also seeing fewer attacks as the Wechmarch was stretched thin to cover so much acquired territory. While the Germans were still in good standing for combat, their ranks had thinned and were growing thinner with each combat situation. There was the apparent injection of new fanatical forces known as the Hitler Youth, but they were a relatively unconfirmed rumour which Colonel Phillips suspected would be waiting for them.

HYDRA forces were doing their own push-back on the Allies, but none of their ranks were known to be seen along the coast of France. That increased the odds that whatever amphibious landing mission would be more successful. Schmidt was clearly occupied reinforcing certain German lines and pushing up production with the few HYDRA facilities left. They had not been able to track down the main base where all the parts were apparently being shipped to, though it was given an educated guess of the Austrian Alps. It was a stronghold of consolidated HYDRA and German power.

He knew the casualty numbers were listed as something like two-percent of the entire attack force, which should have been a drop in the bucket. However, that number was estimated to be worse for the first companies landing on the beaches. There were enough known German pill boxes, casements and commandeered houses that could line up to shatter ranks as the run moved up the beaches, but it was the ideal spot all the same.

Phillips had assigned him to the third wave, far enough back where the main slaughter would be over and the beaches more likely to be secured. They had fought verbally and butted heads for almost three days before he had won his way into the first wave. He acquiesced to the strict firm warning that if he died on that beach that Phillips would march down there personally to spit upon his corpse and tear a verbal strip off of him. He had no doubt that the Colonel was actually serious, which meant that he had to stay alive and be as invisible as the rest of the men that he would be leading into combat.

Corporal Rumlow and Sergeant Barnes were also assigned to his unit and would make the run with him. Lieutenant Falsworth had shifted over to make the run of a different beach whose code name was Sword. Jones, Dernier and Dugan were assigned to another company of the 116th regiment, a group of men they had worked with on the drive up Italy. The Rangers were a battle-hardened group of men.

"I would have expected that you would have a plan by now."

Steve looked up from the surveillance photos to regard Agent Carter, her uniform jacket folded over one arm. He offered her a chagrined smile as he rose to stand. He knew that she had worked as tirelessly as he had over the last months, but he could ask for no better ally than her when it came to planning and executing the details of missions.

"Agent Carter," he replied with a tip of his head.

"Oh, it's Peggy at present, given I'm off the clock," she replied, her lips rising in a smile. "Captain, I suggest you make your way back to your barracks. Those pictures will be replaced in about eight hours."

He glanced at the clock in the corner of the underground bunker. "It seems to be Steve now, as I think I was off the clock about an hour ago."

"Charmed, as always, by your dedication," Agent Carter replied. She moved over, setting her jacket over the back of a chair and helped him to gather up the photos and slip them back into the manila envelope in which they had come from. Their hands brushed a few times as he handed her stacks of photos. "Are you here for any particular reason so late into the night?"

Steve shrugged as he began to roll up the maps. "I don't like the casualty statistic," he said simply.

"It's necessary," Peggy replied, not unkindly. "Freedom is worth the sacrifice."

"But if I see safe passage or a weak point in the defenses that saves some of those men, then I will make use of it," he replied firmly as he tucked the maps back into their tubing and sealed them to be put back on the shelves. "I understand casualties are a fact of war, but if my knowing every potential path and obstacle will help, then I'll take the time to do so."

Peggy took the many folders on the beach lines and villages surrounding their assigned point of attack and marched off with them. It was clear from her silence that she had no suggestions or rebuttal to his claims, so she wouldn't go about wasting the words on an unnecessary battle. She was conservative like that.

He grabbed his brown officer's jacket from the back of a nearby chair and slipped it back onto his shoulders, tugging the seams straight and clean. He smoothed down the front, though there was no point in buttoning it at this point with his return to his barracks. Instead, he only took a moment to smooth his fingers through his hair to make certain that it was in order and presentable to be seen in public with a female officer of Agent Carter's caliber.

She had not donned her jacket again, but she gestured with a friendly casualness that they had developed over time. He fell in line with her left arm where her jacket was folded and held open the door for her as they existed the old train station that was now a SSR marshalling point. Up the stairs they marched into the open streets, and if he expected her to direct them immediately back to their assigned barracks, he was immediately corrected.

Peggy caught his arm with her hand and pulled him with a simple squeeze of her fingers to draw him across the street to head in the opposite direction. Portland was a quaint little place that was currently swollen with the hidden ranks of soldiers trying to keep out of the way of daily British life.

"Shall we share a cup of tea and a biscuit before retiring, Captain?" Her formality was for the benefit of a few civilians closing up their shops.

"Of course," he replied. He knew the area around here well, so there were little cafes about which stayed open long enough to catch a few of the soldiers not yet in their bunks. "Do you have a place in mind, Agent Carter?"

Peggy offered him a smile and a genial squeeze of her hand. "Why I do believe I have a spot or two that would fit our needs. Shall we?"

"At your lead, ma'am," he replied just as jovially.

So off they went through the relatively deserted streets of Portland. Britain was still under stringent rationing despite the aide from the United States. While more transport ships might be arriving, this land was also bursting at the seams with the manpower of a potential long-term assault on. The British were also a cautious and shrewd people, having suffered with little for many years and now seemed reluctant to over-indulge in case the rationing grew fierce again.

Still, the lamps were lit in the streets, people had long ago dined on their limited meals, and the young ones put to their beds. Getting a sip of alcohol was pointless with the limitations of the stuff and Peggy not being particularly interested to have to drink rowdy men under the table again.

Instead, she lead them to a small corner cafe with seating out to the sidewalks and a warm air that smelled something like cinnamon. They entered and it was three-quarters full of patrons who were enjoying their last nip of tea and soft conversation before the night came with and the still unnerving fear of an airstrike from the Germans hanging over every bed. People had a tired worn edge to them, but all managed a smile for one another. British life went on always.

Steve approached the counter to put in an order of the dark tea that he had come to learn was Peggy's favourite and the last of the sweets that they had left for the night. He paid out of his daily allotment and took the plate piled with various sweets and biscuits to the table which Peggy had reserved for them looking out at the streets. Their cups and saucers were already set prettily on the table and their tea would be coming once the young woman had steeped it.

Setting down the plate, he shrugged off his jacket again and set it over the back of his chair before seating himself. He offered only a boyish smile as Peggy eyed the sheer amount of sweets on the table between them. As if to playfully challenge her, he picked up the plate and offered it to her. "Would care for a biscuit or three?"

His cheekiness earned a laugh from her and she indeed took two. "You do understand we are under rations, Captain?"

Steve shrugged. "These are the last of the day, and they'll be making fresh ones in some hours. I'm doing them a service taking them off of their hands."

"A service, hmm?" She took a bite and watched him over the edge of her biscuit. "Will you be taking the rest for your men?"

"Of course not," he replied. "They have my alcohol allotment. I have their extra food."

Everyone knew for a fact that there was barely any alcohol and even less in the way of extra food for anyone, though with almost complete dominion on the Atlantic Ocean, that was changing rapidly. While some soldiers complained and had to dip into their own funds to provide food for themselves, he and Bucky were so used to going with less that they found the bounty of their current predicament to be favourable to how they had lived in the Depression. There was still food to eat, a job to be done and a wage to earn, so for them in particular, it was a situation where they thrived. Most of the men that he worked with accepted the situation as a fact of life and little more than that.

Their steeped tea arrived in a pot. He filled their cups with the dark brew and set the teapot between them before indulging in one of the sugar biscuits on the plate. He helped himself to another two for his side plate and watched in amusement as Peggy daintily began to dip her biscuits in the tea to soften it up. He had never particularly understood the tradition.

They contented themselves with their last-minute indulgence, watching as both civilians and military personnel drifted to their respective locations. There wasn't a lot of places to go in Portland, certainly nothing to see and training operations were done away from the town itself to limit potential spies seeing what they were doing.

"How are the men, Captain?"

He shrugged his shoulders and swallowed some biscuit. "Impatient," he replied simply. "They want to see action, but training is most important now. We are extremely proficient in boarding and leaving the LCI and Higgins boats and the live fire exercises are going well."

Peggy nodded her head. "You're worried."

"This is an all or nothing operation," Steve said slowly, pausing to sip at his cooling tea. It was still too hot to drink. "Eisenhower has no contingency plans. We take the beaches or we are thrown into the sea."

"The operation is well-planned," Agent Carter said in her usual firm confidence.

Steve nodded his head, agreeing with her on that point. This was a melding of all the forces one way or another, but there was a part of him apprehensive with it all the same. He knew that he could be honest with Peggy and receive no disrespect for his concerns. "There is no sign that Schmidt has forces in France, yet I can't help but suspect he has some trick up his sleeve."

"His zeppelin has not been seen anywhere close to France," Peggy agreed. "His forces appear to be concentrating in solidifying a force against the Red Army who are pushing back. Then there is his gathering of minerals for whatever he is building."

"He could bring the Tesseract into play given how much energy it can apparently produce." He was grasping, but there were rumours of new tanks and even howitzers. No one had managed to get any pictures or even a model. It was a rumour, little more but it could prove a considerable danger to troops.

Rumlow was still the only one immune to the effects of the energy bolts.

On those beaches, the morale of fighting men could be dragged through the mud if they had to face a weapon that would literally incinerate them. A bullet men had faced for the most part, but those weapons raised the stakes unbearably. He, Peggy and Phillips had discussed at length how the battle would change if HYDRA had provided the Wehrmacht with even a handful of those weapons to their defending troops.

It would make a difficult battle closer to impossible. Rommel was already keeping the stakes high. Hitler had also proven determined to keep every inch of land or make the Allies pay dearly for taking it.

"Our current intelligence puts no HYDRA battalions anywhere West of Yonne. It would be improbable that the French Resistance wouldn't notice a movement of resources like which HYDRA possesses," Peggy finally said after a sip of tea. "Howard is also convinced that HYDRA has not yet been able to create a camouflage to disguise their artillery and tanks."

Steve nodded. "Howard has been wrong before."

"So have you," Peggy replied simply, raising an eyebrow. He couldn't contest the point. "It's more you I'm concerned about."

He frowned at the sudden accusation. Peggy had never voiced a doubt on his abilities in or out of combat. "Have I given you reason for concern?"

"Well, with less than the total Commandos to hold you back, I fear you're going to get it in your head to run up that beach at the fore and leave everyone else behind," she remarked.

Steve stiffened and feigned a hurt look. "Rumlow can keep up with me. So that's two."

"And Barnes would put in a full effort, so that's three against the defenses of the German army, which I might add could potentially involve six panzer units. I see the odds not particularly increasing in your favour, Captain," she said tartly. "Those two are as reckless as you are."

It was true that they tended to get a little excited when having to make dangerous runs where mines, bullets and bombs all had a chance to kill them. They worked well as a unit, and it wasn't as if any of the other Commandos gritted their teeth when a risk had to be taken. He suspected Peggy's beef was that she wasn't there barking orders at them to keep them in line, especially when all of them had proven she could take the lead with a faint curl of her stiff upper lip.

Steve took a sip from his tea cup and looked out at the streets beyond them. He paused in taking a larger one as a familiar uniformed soldier walked by on the other side of the street, right arm hooked around the left of a pretty little dame.

“Corporal,” Peggy called without waiting, her sharp eyes keying on the pair.

Rumlow spotted them and offered a friendly wave before suddenly being almost half-dragged over when blond dame sighted who had called. She was a beautiful woman, sharp made up features with curls of hair piled on her head in a more utilitarian style. She wore a tweed skirt and silk top with a matching jacket, looking very fashionable. He also noted how she had her arm possessively around his Corporal’s as if it had been a hard won battle to earn Brock’s regard for the evening.

He leaned back in his chair and smiled at the unlikely but no less handsome pair. “We were just discussing you, Rumlow.”

“Telling Agent Carter all the good things about me again, are you,” Brock replied with a wink, showing some of that charisma which could rival Bucky. There was no limp to their secondary sniper’s gait despite the gunshot wound just a few weeks before. “Be careful, Rogers, I might just steal that dame of yours.”

The four of them had a chuckle over that, even if he felt a slight sting of awkwardness. He did notice that the blond dame tightened her hold on Brock’s arm. Peggy simply dunked her current biscuit in her tea and smiled. There was steel to the gesture as if daring Rumlow to even try.

“Ah, where are my manners?” Brock said and gestured to the blond. “This is Julia. She’s working as a typist for the AEF office. Julia, this is Captain Steve Rogers and our British liaison for the SSR, Agent Margaret Carter.”

There was a round of everyone shaking hands and completing the required greetings of it being a pleasure to be in one another’s company. He shifted his seat a little to make room for the new pair, taking himself closer to where Peggy was seated. Julia relaxed visibly and took on a far more honest if triumphant smile.

“Would you two care to sit,” Peggy inquired, gesturing at the two empty spots.

“Thank you for the kind offer, but Brock has promised to show me a family heirloom that he brought over from the United States,” Julia tittered, flushing pink in the cheeks. “Are you still going to?”

Rumlow smiled, showing a hint of perfect teeth. “I’m a man of my word, doll. It’s a very important knife.”

Steve knew exactly what blade that was, had seen and even examined it on more than one occasion. He knew that Rumlow was very attached to the blade and went to great lengths to keep it finely honed for combat and otherwise hidden in the man’s kitpack when not otherwise allowed weapons. That blade never left Rumlow’s sight or pack as far as he could tell.

“It’s also getting close to curfew,” he said with a nod of his head. It would be a shame to keep these two from enjoying the rest of their evening. “You’re seeing Julia back to her barracks?”

“Of course,” Rumlow replied. The pair exchanged a look. He didn’t understand it. “We should be off, unless the matter of discussing me requires my personal defense?”

“Oh no, I was simply chastening Steve for being reckless, and that you and Sergeant Barnes can’t resist following him into the whirlwind of trouble.” Peggy offered a wide smile, which was returned. He swore there might have been sparks between the two women’s gazes.

“Guilty as charged,” Brock said, patting Julia’s hand before she leaned in impulsively to press a kiss their Corporal’s cheek. “Ah well, we’d best be off. Thanks for the offer of tea, and we’ll see you at SSR headquarters.”

And like that, the pair were off again. For some reason, he didn’t think that Rumlow was nearly as enthused as Julia was with the situation, but was putting up a gamely front. It almost seemed like an obligation, which couldn’t be right. He’d seen Rumlow with women here and there before, nothing serious beyond a dance or two and a drink exchanged.

Steve looked over at Peggy who had already dismissed the pair. “He’s not going to have much time to show her his blade and get her back to her barracks.”

“Steven,” Peggy said, her voice rising with amusement.

“Pardon?”

“They are as likely to make curfew as King George is to sire a son.” She watched him, but honestly, he hadn’t paid much attention to the family dynamics of British Royalty. It wasn’t much of a big thing in the United States. “Steve, they are going to have sex.”

Oh.

It seemed stupid in hindsight that he had not picked up on that, especially given how enthusiastic some lads were about being in town for that very reason. Why had he thought that Rumlow was any different? He craned his neck to catch the last view of the pair before they were gone around a corner, and he sighed heavily. Bucky would have had a field day with that.

Steve looked at Peggy and smiled faintly. “I should have recognized that, shouldn’t I?”

“Are you jealous,” she asked him.

“Certainly not,” Steve replied immediately. He was fine with waiting, in no hurry at all. “She’s won a hard battle for his regard, honestly. He doesn’t attach himself to women easily that I’ve seen.”

“He’s attached to you,” Peggy pointed out mercilessly.

Ah, he knew that this was a subject which should have been brought up weeks ago, but time just seemed to have gotten the better of him what with missions. He and Rumlow were attached, he could admit that. Their habits of sleeping close to each other was not a normal occurrence for anyone beyond the buddy-system which was developed to relieve tensions between soldiers. Considering the Commandos entertained no particular buddy-system, it was perhaps toeing the line when it came to his loyalty to both Peggy and Rumlow.

“Peg,” he said softly, turning his tea cup round and round on the saucer. “Rumlow means a lot to me, as much as Bucky, as much as _you_. He and I do… sometimes toe a dangerous line, but…”

“There is no future with him,” Agent Carter remarked bluntly. “Steve, I’m not angry.”

Steve shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I feel like I’m betraying you, betraying what we’ve developed, and I never want that. I care very much about you, Peggy.” This was what he had been struggling with because losing Peggy would be devastating as he loved her. He could admit that to himself, but he didn’t find it something to state during the war. If he died....

“Steve, you have every right to happiness, and believe me, so do I. However, I understand the strain that you are under more than most.” He knew that she did. She had a massive and difficult job and it was these times they had together which he knew brightened her day. “You are loyal to what we have.”

“But…”

“For God’s Sake, you carry my picture in your compass,” Peggy interrupted. “And when this war is over, I expect you to make good on such signs of your affections. Until then, this war is paramount and however you choose to unwind from the rigors of it are yours and yours alone.”

He could just kiss her right now, probably even get on his knee to propose like he was supposed to. He had no ring, no prospects in some regards, and so close to D-Day, he hesitated in making that kind of promise to her. She was a fine dame, beautiful and tenacious and this was just one of many examples of her fortitude when dealing with the often daft men who made up her social circle.

Steve leaned in and kissed her cheek, watching her blush with pleasure. He received a rare true smile from her, and it made his toes curl in his hobnailed boots. He took another biscuit and nibbled on it.

“I hope Rumlow takes due care,” he finally said.

“With the distribution of millions of condoms, I suspect he will be just fine,” Peggy said with a coy smile. “It isn’t just water balloons the soldiers use them for, after all.”

He knew that. Steve had seen men using condoms to cover the barrels of their guns to protect them from water and sand, certainly a must for storming a beach. Cigarettes and matches also seemed to find their way into those little neat rubbers. And when the men were bored, water was certainly used.

Everyone had to be prepared after all.

*****  
**Normandy Beach Codename "Omaha", France - June 6th, 1944**

As the ramp dropped into the rising waves of the sea, Steve raised his shield to protect his head and upper body. Immediately, the shriek of German MG42 bullets slammed into the vibranium and the act of raising it to protect himself also protected the rose of men waiting behind him. The batter of bullets was a terrifying violent pounding, even for him a seasoned veteran of combat.

The walls of the Higgins boat they were trying to exit allowed the Germans to just line them up and fire right down the entire belly of the craft. He stepped forward into the wild confusing cacophony of bullets flying, mines exploding and men wading desperately through the waist deep water.

He stepped off the landing craft, bullets whizzing around and screaming against his shield. The moment he sank into the water, a bullet grazed his thigh as it entered the water. He stumbled, almost submerging, but a rough hand grabbed the back of his pack and hauled him back to standing.

It was Bucky, as white with shocked terror to the hell they had just entered as he was. If he went down, his best friend and the thirty or so men crammed up behind him would probably be shot dead. It became about survival, which dampened the fear to clear his head.

_Up the beach. Clear the beach._

_Tat-tat-tat-tat!_

“I’m hit, holy fuck!”

He regained his footing and waded into the water, heading for the beach where the Belgium gates loomed both as a salvation and potential doom. Mines were attached to the large steel cross-shaped barriers against landing craft. Men would do anything for protection against the haze of bullets that bore down on them, so it was to the Belgium gates that they all spread out to get to. Some men were stretched up the line of metal structures, ducking and flinching as bullets rang off the metal.

With open water, men left the protection of his shield’s limited range. A bullet pinged off the edge, ricocheted to the left and impacted with the neck of a young soldier racing through the water next to him. Sand suddenly showered him from a landmine being triggered, a new layer of noise following as men screamed about their now ruined bodies.

“Left twenty degrees, Cap,” Bucky yelled, being his eyes as he continued to hold up his shield to protect them. They passed a body floating in the water. Blooms of red blood twirled almost calmly as they passed. Bullets streaked into the water like fat drops of deadly rain.

“Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahh!”

“Who’s in command?! What do we do?!”

It felt like at least two hours for him to reach his own Belgium gate, and it was only there that he lowered the shield and surveyed the chaos around them. The air force had not cleared the beach as promised. There were no large impact craters for the men to hide in. German artillery was untouched and pre-sighted to every single goddamn inch of the sand they were having to cross. Around him, the ranks of previously frightened but gusto-bearing men were shattered with fear at the barrage that was being laid down around them. Landmarks of objectives were obscured by the haze of smoke from mines and bombs, making their already difficult job even worse. Only the distant rise of the ridge told them where they had to go and the sheer length of beach they had to cross.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bucky swore at his back. “They’re murdering us!”

Rumlow, who was crammed up under a different arm of their Higgins gate with two other American soldiers, was mute. The man’s lips were set in a firm white line, eyes looking back towards the water. No doubt seeing the massacre they had waded through.

Bullets pinged with a startling note off of the metal of their current protection. Another beach mine detonated, raining down sand. To his right, another Higgins boat had arrived to drop off a load. The bullets of the MG42s mowed down the soldiers as they tried to leave. Many scrambled over the sides; some didn’t return to the surface, whether drowned by their equipment or taking a bullet that streaked through the water.

They were indeed being murdered. The bodies littering the beach ahead and floating in the water around them attested to that.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

“Mommy!”

“Sonuva…!”

_Tat-tat-ting-tat-ting-ting!_

Steve hadn’t had to recall that since he was in a frail body subjected to asthma attacks. Now it served him to focus as he checked his equipment pack by feel and covered his head with his shield so he could look up the distance of the beach that they had to cross. He steeled himself and then turned to the soldiers clinging desperately to the Belgium gate with him.

“Get your equipment, get your nerve and come on! We move up the beach! We’re dead men sitting here.” With the bullets rattling off the metal arms, it was impossible not to consider how safe it was here. The men knew it. Bucky still nodded out of loyalty to him. “Move, move!”

He was the first to leave the gate, raising his shield again as he waded through the rising water as quickly as was safe to do so with men piling in behind him. He slogged his way to the next Belgium gate, pausing to note one of their men was missing from the back. The water was up to his knees, and he paused only long enough to sight where the next obstacle to hide behind was.

Already, the gate directly ahead of them was clogged with a cluster of terrified men. They were leaderless, scrambling to both live and to follow the objectives that had been drilled into them. He shifted his shield to look for a less occupied barrier against the bullets. Around him, men attempted the objective, scrambling up the beach.

A landmine blew, cartwheeling men into the air. A few limbs went one way and the bulk of bodies the other. Its detonation brought new screams. Still soldiers scuttled and braved their way forward.

More bullets impacted his raised shield, jerking his arm with repeated impacts. Another target was found as the MG42s, and it moved off to slice through flesh. He blinked water from his eyes and again had to steel himself despite what he mentally knew was a death sentence staying here. It was safe now. His body was raring to go, but his mind grappled with the sheer magnitude which came in the form of men screaming, scrambling, crying or too shocked to do anything but cower.

Steve shoved away from the protective metal gate and scrambled low on the beach. He felt Bucky literally on his ass and someone else crammed to the other cheek. It would have been absurdly funny if the words, “son of a bitch”, weren’t currently being yelled into his ass as the individual on the left stumbled and crow-hopped after tripping on a corpse.

They left the water and settled behind a Belgium gate that was already almost full with soldiers seeking protection. He looked down as he crouched and blinked at the shocked dead face of a fish. Suddenly his vision was obscured with Rumlow cramming in under the protection of his shield, which he had to still hold up to avoid being shot.

He and his Corporal were practically nose-to-nose, but there was no intimacy. He could see how much of the whites of Rumlow’s eyes showed, and the man was breathing fast and hard. There was a brief flicker of resentment in the Corporal’s eyes which faded with a deep focusing breath.

Steve had ordered Rumlow not to blink him or anyone else up the beach. His reasoning had been simple: men were going to need the courage, so they had to see him slog up the beach. He didn’t regret that decision, but it would have been awful nice to be out of the hail of bullet hell.

_Tat-tat-tat!_

“Momma! Momma!”

“I don't wanna die...”

_Boom!_

“...full of grace, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against…”

Sand rained down on them. He coughed on some smoke and lifted a hand to shove water and sand from his eyes. There was another explosion nearby, but it was much smaller and controlled. The barbed wire had been lanced by an engineer with a well-placed bangalore.

As he peeked around his shield, he watched as men hesitated to move through the hole. It would bottleneck them for certain. He could feel Rumlow’s breath against his neck. They had to move, but he was suddenly aware of fingers gripping his sleeves.

“Cap… Cap, listen…” Sand rained down on them from a mine detonating ahead of their current position as the first soldiers dashed through the hole.

Bullets raked their Belgium gate like deadly rain.

Steve looked down into Rumlow’s face. “What? Make it quick; we have to move.”

Rumlow’s expression clouded momentarily. His Corporal began to speak, but any words were cut off as Bucky slammed into his back, clearly having moved from a different position. “Captain, I’ve got two fellas hidden further up to carefully pull the wire back. Our window is opening.”

Whatever Rumlow was going to say faded with a setting of the man’s jaw. Determination flooded in its wake and surprisingly, Rumlow wiggled out from being plastered against him to look up the line of beach. A bullet ricocheted from his shield and impacted next to Rumlow’s foot. His Corporal didn’t even flinch.

_Breathe in, breathe out._ Sand with water and someone else’s blood itched the back of his neck.

Rumlow looked back at him once and then rose and shot out like a cannon ball from behind the Belgium gate, sprinting in a hopping zig-zag fashion to make a more difficult target. Other soldiers saw the move and rose to follow, some being cut down by the whiz of bullets, others scrambling to drag their comrades, a few dragging what remained of a comrade or parts of themselves up the beach.

_Clear the beach._ That was the order.

Steve rose and kept his shield up, racing for the expanding hole in the barbed wire as engineers pulled it back. More mines exploded as they entered the new stretch of no-man’s land. The screams of the dying and the injured were a morbid lullaby that mixed with the higher tones of bullets hitting metal or that low base note of entering flesh and was generally followed by a slump of a body.

Those screams chased him as frightened but too well trained men followed him. The MG42 bullets raked the front of his shield, blowing back his balance so that he fell into Bucky coming up on his six. Together they managed to not fall but roll forward and force their way up to the last Belgium gate.

Ahead of them was twenty meters of open beach before a huge pile of sand had been built up against the seawall. Scattered in front of them were those impact craters that they had been promised, and it was the only relative safety. However against the seawall, they could orient themselves and get a better idea of the paths that would allow them to take the concrete bunkers where the German big guns were firing from. Without taking those out, the mission was as good as over.

Around his position, platoons raced for the illusion of safety by the sand. He looked around to get a count of the number of men around him, mostly those who had come under his command. Many were scattered, dead or missing. Medics were picking through the wounded; he could see them by the red cross on their helmets. They were not immune to the bullets but soldiered on as well as any man.

Steve turned back and watched men racing up the beach, Rumlow and several of his platoon with the Corporal. There was an explosion that masked Brock’s suicidal sprint with sand and smoke, but there was a sudden fireball exploding outwards. One of the napalm tanks worn by a soldier wielding a M1 flamethrower had been hit and caught fire.

A moment later, Rumlow blinked blue in front of the sand heap. Was Brock’s uniform smoking? Was his Corporal burnt? He couldn’t tell from such a distance.

“Is that a HYDRA energy bolt,” Bucky suddenly demanded of him, pointing up at a 72mm gun position.

He looked but there was nothing to be seen through the smoke, so it was impossible to tell one way or another. If Schmidt had someone managed to sneak a few to the front line, it would do them no good to remain where they were behind the Belgium gate.

“Move to the seawall,” he ordered and hefted his shield. “Make sure we have some bangalores to blow the wall and wire.”

Bucky passed the order along, having to yell to be heard over the screams of broken men. Then his best friend hefted a pliofilm bag covered Johnson sniper rifle, smacked down the standard issue helmet and began to make the run.

_Tat-tat-tat-ting!_

“Medic! Medic! Please, please…!”

“Nnngggghhhhh…”

He let his friend go, his eyes rising to get a count on the big guns based on their muzzle fire. There were at least three protected MG42s up there, untouched by any air strikes and tearing up the battlefield. The previous waves were either dead and scattered and frightened, but as he moved, he felt clarity that came with combat.

He felt good despite the risks, felt the adrenaline pumping through his veins. They were almost in position at Dog One, exactly where they were supposed to be.

Steve pushed out from the Belgium gate with the last of the men hidden there with him. He raised his shield and ran hard for the temporary goal of the seawall and its protective sand barrier as that would offer limited protection. A young private to his right went down with a bullet to the chest, and another coming up behind fell in the tangle of falling limbs. He skidded to a stop and grabbed the surviving private tangled, dragging the man free and protected momentarily with him behind his shield. Others streamed around them to continue on.

“On your feet, son. Make for the seawall,” he ordered firmly.

“Yes sir. Thank you sir…”

He rose, hefting his pliofilm covered M1A1 Thompson under his arm, unwilling to spend the time to pull it out of its covering and risk sand clogging the barrel . He legged it up the beach, looking at the scattering of soldiers doing the same. His eye caught on Bucky running, legs working hard and equipment jumping with each powerful stride. Not more than five meters to go.

The anti-personnel mine exploded to Bucky’s left. It was hard to tell who had set it off as there were so many soldiers up running through that area.

Steve knew his best friend had been hit. There were fresh new screams of injured men, some kicking and thrashing in the dirt, others laying still and some struggling to continue to the safety of the seawall ahead. It was strange how tunnel-visioned he became as he swore he heard Bucky’s voice in the cacophony, yelling his name.

“I’m hit!”

“Oh God…!”

He sprinted over, chewing the distance with ease, ignoring the bullets whizzing around him and gaze frantically searching for the person most matching Bucky’s physical outline. He stumbled over an arm, shorn off above the elbow. He almost slipped in the long charred string of entrails, but his left hand was already pulling over bodies to search for his best friend.

“Bucky!”

There weren’t that many… not that many whole anyway. He pulled two dying men over to him, protecting them with his shield as a Red Cross medic settled next to him. One was too far gone, given nothing but a vial of morphine to ease the moaning whimpers. The second was apparently salvageable. It wasn’t Bucky, and his heart thundered in his ears as he reached out to grab another soldier. Dead.

“Stevie…?”

He jumped the distance to the top of the impact crater of sand, shielding his best friend and looking back at the medic who was busily working. He stared at the pale dirty face of his Sergeant for a moment before his eyes darted down to search for body injuries. There was so much blood, which was perhaps more obvious to him because of the fact that Bucky’s left arm was missing, torn off above the elbow and only a bloody stump remained in tatters of ranger greens. There were little spurts of blood with each heartbeat in his friend.

“Hold on, Buck,” Steve assured, more for himself than his white-faced friend.

“We gotta move. Not safe…” Bucky mumbled, shifting as if to get up but just thrashing instead.

“MEDIC,” he bellowed over the noise of warfare. “MEDIC FRONT AND CENTER!”

He jammed his shield into the sand and propped it up more with a corpse before he was pulling out a long string of gauze from the pouch across his chest. A bullet ricocheted off of his helmet, knocking it clear of his head, but he only ducked his chin closer to his chest and hunkered down over his best friend. He moved to tie off above the stump, trying to limit bleeding with a makeshift tourniquet.

“If you get shot in the head, I’m gonna kill you, Steve Rogers,” Bucky hissed at him through pain-clenched teeth. “Is it bad?”

“Shut up,” he snapped back, watching blood stain the sand and Bucky’s uniform. “I need a medic,” he hollered again, reaching out absently to grab his fallen helmet and jam it back on his head. There was a bullet line circling the outside of the material at the very top.

Suddenly, there was a body slamming down next to him, a blood-stained red-head where it was impossible to identify freckles from blood spatters. Bucky was given a vial of morphine first, slowly silencing the hisses of pain. The arm warranted the most attention, the medic mumbling so before the older man actually looked up and recognized him.

“We need to pull him back to the boats, sir,” the medic said while trying to suture off the main veins in what was left of Bucky’s arm.

“This whole beach is lined up, son. If we pull him back…” he trailed off as his shield was raked with gunfire, throwing himself over Bucky protectively. “Bucky…”

“Shush, I’ve got morphine. I feel _fine_ ,” his friend said with a pained smile. “I’ve gotten worse from the Dallainy kids in the back alley.”

“Your arm….”

“Morphine, Steve,” Bucky replied with an attempt to be stern. There were still obvious signs of pain between his friend’s brows and the tendons that stood out in Bucky’s neck. “And there’s a mission. Go and finish it. Me… I’m going to put my feet up and flirt with some nurses.”

Steve bit his lower lip and helped to slap on a tight bandage on the stump of his best friend’s arm. There was so much blood, and it wasn’t stopping now that the arm was bandaged. He jerked up Bucky’s uniform jacket and goddamn it, look at those shrapnel holes. He cursed and looked at the medic who simply shook a head but set to work to staunch the bleeding anyway. He shook his head in reply, unwilling to believe this. His best friend could _not_ be a casualty.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

There were several explosions by the seawall where a relatively strong contingent of men had gathered themselves. Barbed wire and bits of seawall and sand blew into the sky and up the tall cliffs where most of the German defenses were set into the rock face. The current no man’s land was strewn with bodies and blood, and he was hugging Bucky desperately to his belly. He could take his friend to the boats…

“RUMLOW,” he bellowed out, peering around his shield for sign of the Corporal. He hollered twice more before he thought he saw a head turn in his direction. Then…

Rumlow came in a blast of blue light and suddenly his Corporal landed on the medic, crushing the man to the sand. “Shit, sorry kiddo,” Rumlow said, sliding off the red-head with just glared and went back to digging out shrapnel from Bucky’s wounded abdomen and thighs.

Their gazes met, but it was the red mottling of burns on the left side on Brock’s face that attracted his attention. There was an eyebrow burnt right off and sand crusting the burns at Rumlow’s jaw line. Yet, around the edge of the burns flickers of blue snapped and crackled, though it was impossible to tell if that energy dedicated to healing or something else.

“Those a second degree burns…” the medic said from next to the Corporal.

“They can wait,” Rumlow barked and looked between himself and Bucky who was shivering. “Orders, Captain?”

“Take Bucky back to England, to the SSR,” Steve ordered firmly.

“Steve, you idiot…” Bucky hissed with a weak attempt at exasperation.

“You’ve ordered me not to use my power unless absolutely necessary,” Rumlow said carefully, not questioning the order but making certain that this situation fell into that category.

Steve knew that if his Sergeant didn’t receive immediate medical care that Bucky would die out here in the sand or worse alone on a boat bobbing on the waves. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – accept that death, not after they had come so far together. He ignored the sand that showered down on them, his gaze staring a hole into Rumlow’s dark one.

“Take Sergeant Barnes back to the SSR immediately and return to me, Corporal,” Steve ordered firmly.

“No, Steve…”

“You’re bleeding out, Bucky, so shut up. I’m saving your life,” Steve snapped coldly, a hint of desperation slicing through his tone.

“Are you sacrificing others for him,” Rumlow asked just as coldly.

Steve seized his Corporal by one of the man’s uniform straps and jerked Rumlow to him. “You have your orders, Corporal. Follow them.”

Rumlow glanced at Bucky who was white and trembling, huffing softly. “Well, at least you won’t be as heavy as usual. Great weight loss plan, Barnes.”

“I gotta fit these hips into fine clothing, Bones,” Bucky replied weakly.

“ _Go_ ,” Steve demanded.

And then they were gone, the wisps of blue caressing his cheeks, and he swore that he heard the soft merriment of a woman on the wind. He inhaled a sharp breath, grabbed the flabbergast medic and hauled the pair of them up and pushed thoughts of Bucky out of his head. It was out of his hands even if the decision to send Rumlow off on this mission could earn him a dressing down. He didn’t care; life wasn’t life without Bucky.

He raced up the remaining beach, leaving the medic with the safety of the sand to treat more wounded. He crawled his way down the line on his elbows and knees, bullets pounding into the built up sand to his left. Despite the distracting questions of his friend, he focused better without thinking about Bucky being on the beach or being carried back down. He had to put an end to those big guns so they could get some damn armour on the beach!

Men had strung themselves out along the cliff face on the other side of the seawall, the bangalores having done their job taking out the barbed wire. He ran with those streaming over the seawall, running through the lines of barb wired lined trenches towards the cement bulkheads that were meant to attract airstrikes and leave actual targets alone. He sprinted along the line where he expected his platoon to be and found a few that were milling without direction on how to proceed.

Steve found a communications officer and seized the man by the arm. “Report to command that Dog One is _not_ secure and we have no armour of the beach. Tell them that airstrikes were ineffective; all the German big guns are still operational.”

He turned away and gathered his men and any who were in position to listen to him. Many looked shell-shocked by the devastation that they had charged through and currently survived. “We have to take out those German 42s,” he shouted so that as many as would listen could hear him. He pulled a pliofilm covered map from his large chest pocket and lined up their position, pointing out a break in the ridge and cement defensive pillars where they could work up through. “We move around to the North side and work our ways up and around to the main murder hole. We make a hole in the defenses and we punch through.”

Everyone was nodding, buffeted with the courage that came with orders. They had something else to focus on other than their fear.

“Whoever doesn’t have guns, go and take them off the dead or dying,” he ordered, watching a few scramble to comply, which meant going back over the sand dune.

The communications officer shook his sleeve, drawing his attention. The guy couldn’t even be twenty-years old yet and had a tight-lipped expression. “Command wants an ETA on securing the beach.”

“When it’s secure,” he replied simply. “You keep up with me, son. I’m going to need your connection to the Navy.”

“What the fuck is that,” someone down the line asked.

“What are you talking about, Dutch?”

“Up there.” All eyes that weren’t currently occupied with running for their lives or looking for weapons across a live-fire battlefield looked up.

Steve lifted his gaze to the sky where missiles were streaking through the air, a deadly arch from far over their heads. Even by the time he grabbed his binoculars, the missiles had began their deadly descent into the Atlantic Ocean and the supposedly safe range of the Royal Navy who were there to protect them from German panzer divisions. Instead, it was the many boats and destroyers that came under assault from the sky.

He felt his stomach drop as he spotted what could have been the red octopus symbol painted on the side, but the missiles were too fast and too far away to confirm. He tightened his jaw until his teeth hurt and looked at the white-faced communications officer.

“Report airstrikes on the Royal Navy from inland, source unknown,” he ordered, moving up the line of men even as the _tat-tat-tat_ of the MG42s continued above their heads.

“Don’t we have air superiority, sir,” one private asked him as he passed.

“We have a job to do, son,” he said and marched towards the break in the cement defenses around them. “The Navy can help themselves, but we’ll do what we can for them once we secure the beach. Uncover your weapons!”

Steve pulled off the pliofilm wrapping his M1A1 Thompson, tossing it aside. Men all around him were doing the same, slapping the butt and barrel to free up any sand that might have somehow managed to get inside regardless of their efforts. He noted a few condoms being flicked off into the sand. He checked his ammunition and flicked the safety off of his Thompson.

He looked around and realized in that moment that he had no sniper in his platoon, having sent both away. He hunkered down on the edge of where the cliff face met with cement defense pillar, using a mirror to peer up the ridge and spying a German sand-bag nest with what appeared to be a lone MG42 and three man crew. They needed to take it out before they could to use this ridge as an access to the main cement murder hole.

“Galloway, Wright, Higgins, you boys give covering fire on my order,” he said as he tucked his mirror away into his jacket pocket. “Smith, Morin, Spring, you jump to the other side of the ridge and hunker there, fire on targets if they present themselves.”

Overhead a new barrage of missiles were streaking beyond them. The loud cacophony of German big guns blocked out the sounds from the beach front. It could not distract his men from looking out at sea to see explosions or flaming ships.

“Covering fire,” he barked as he pushed himself off of the rocky wall to step out into view the nest and opened fire to force the three German soldiers to duck down. The three assigned men fired with him, unloading clips as the other three scrambled hastily to the other side of the ridge to safety.

The familiar _ping_ of an empty clip sounded next to him from Higgins’ Garand his private pulling back and loading a new clip. He reloaded his Thompson with smooth veteran motions and primed the submachine gun. “Galloway and Wright, aim for live targets only. Belly down on the rocks with as much cover as you can.”

The pair nodded. Right now, they were his best shots, and he wanted those Germans out of line.

“Covering fire!”

The three privates on the other side behind a matching cement defensive pillar were the first to dart out and pelt the German nest with fire, and he and Higgins followed up. At their feet, Galloway and Wright rolled out onto the rocky ground and set their Garand rifles. He and his men pulled back, and Wright’s rifle sounded off a two seconds after they had withdrawn. Galloway’s followed suit.

A German body tumbled down the slope. Two more remained in the safety behind the cement and sandbags.

Steve risked looking around the cement edge to get a sense of their situation, and he knew he was going to be making a run closer. There was an impact crater a quarter of the way up the hill that would give him protection, and he could draw fire there so that his men could take out the remaining Germans.

“Sir.” The communication officer was tugging urgently at his elbow. “Sir, command has lost communication with Utah. Their last transmission was about a massive piece of armour that fired blue energy. They want clarification on if such a thing exists.”

There was ice in his belly. No, HYDRA hadn’t been seen in the area. How in the hell had they moved a Tesseract-enhanced tank into the area without the French Resistance being aware of it? How had they not picked up something of that size moving into the area? The panzer divisions were just outside of Navy strike range. He stood stock still and slowly looked out into the rolling waves of the Atlantic. The Navy had just been bombed… the tanks were on the move.

“Sir?”

“Confirm the existence of HYDRA technology that matches that description,” he replied slowly.

Suddenly, there was an explosion that rocked the side of the cliff, sand and stone flying through their hole in the ridge. He brought his shield up and hefted his M1A1 Thompson in the right hand as he stepped out to survey the damage and instead, he found himself greeted by the sight of Rumlow hopping and jogging down the slope from the ruined MG42 nest.

“Hold your fire,” he ordered quickly. “He’s one of ours. And tell the rest of the platoons that we have a hole. Bring them around.”

Steve marched over, meeting Rumlow in the dip of an impact crater. The first thing he noticed was how pale and shaky his Corporal was, and his first instinct was to choke on despair that Brock was about to serve him the worst news.

“Sir, reporting back in. Sergeant Barnes is under medical care,” Rumlow said wearily. The Corporal pointed the way that had been opened up. “Trenches up that way, sir. Lots of mines as far as I can tell, so we need to proceed with caution.”

Already, they were moving to ascend the ridge, many of the platoons streaming in after them. He ran his way up the hill, stepping over sand bags and pulling his shield up as he crested the edge of the ridge before he froze as his eyes widened at the sight that greeted him.

The trench system was obvious, many Germans hunkered down protectively. However, there were HYDRA weapons in every single one of their hands, and even from the distance he was at, the low hum of their energy caressed his ears. There were HYDRA tanks too, the ridge just inside the limit of their ranges, but they were painted and drawn up to be French structures like wood sheds, shipping crates, and mule carts. Some were covered in trees, their green foliage looking absurd.

Behind, the infantry rushed up and fanned out, all coming to a stop along the ridge as the full impact of what they faced dawned on many minds. To their right, the German MG42s guns continued their deadly assault on the beach. Above them, a new wave of missiles were launched from a stone church in the distance.

Steve turned his head and looked at Rumlow who wore a blank expression. Their gazes met, and he threw out his left hand, disarming the M1911A1 pistol that his Corporal brought around at him. He flinched when the family heirloom knife sunk into his thigh.

“Rumlow…”

“You’re the last. My mission is over,” the Corporal said simply and then seized his wrist.

Suddenly, he was surrounded in blue light, and he felt a jerk behind his navel to the left. He had been transported in this way before so he knew the sensation, but his brain was jammed and dumbfounded on the information that was trying so very hard to make him accept.

*****

Steve found his weight had barely settled on the flat of his feet before he was jerked right back off of them. Thick strong tentacles twisted and curled around his limbs, waist and chest, and he was inundated with the smell of the sea and raw fish as his shield was wrestled off of his left forearm. He bucked and squirmed, but the creature behind him held fast and even purposefully bent his arms to odd angles that that pain sliced along his muscles.

He knew it was the multi-person octopus creature that he and the Commandos had freed and lost in Algeria without having to look. No, he found his gaze instead focused entirely on the wrong sight before him.

Brock had bent and retrieved his shield from the cement floor, which shouldn’t be odd. It was shocking to see his Corporal walk over and hand the protective disc over to Johann Schmidt. To his right and his left, Falsworth, Dugan, Jones and Morita were chained to the wall. Jim Morita looked to be bleeding profusely and no one else had escaped injury either.

There was no sign of Bucky. There was also no sign of Zola.

Schmidt wore a satisfied smile, daring to tap a finger against the edge of his shield before handing it off to an underling by the door to the containment cell that they were all crowded into. Rumlow stood at parade rest next to the HYDRA leader, refusing to meet any of their gazes and jaw set firmly. It didn’t matter; he knew that they had been betrayed.

He focused on the Skull, twisting his wrists and finding his body sinking more into the rubbery flesh at his back in response. He gritted his teeth, taking strength from the pain in his thigh where he had been stabbed.

“Captain, the war is over,” Schmidt said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Your Project Overlord has failed or is in the process of failing. The combined might of the Allied armies will be captured or thrown into the sea. My spies have provided me everything that I need for complete world dominion.”

Despite himself, Steve’s gaze flicked to Rumlow. “You did this…” Disbelief warred with rising anger.

Schmidt issued a cold chuckle. “Introduce yourself, Corporal.” The Skull glanced away from him. “A proper introduction.”

Brock looked him dead in the eye, jaw working and burns standing out plainly. “My name is Brock Rumlow, and I was born in 1971.” The information was absurd to consider. “My father was a dedicated member of HYDRA, and he sent me back in time with the power of the Tesseract to see the Second Great War end in favour of HYDRA.”

“You lying no-good traitor,” Dugan bellowed, thrashing in the chains the man was held with. “We _trusted_ you!”

Schmidt held Rumlow’s knife, the butt held right in front of his eyes where his gaze unwillingly strayed to the year stamped on the white hilt, 1990. “Corporal Rumlow has always been mine, Captain.”

“I won’t stop until you’re dead,” Steve snarled, though if he meant Schmidt or Rumlow not even he knew.

He struggled against the tentacles holding him, trying to slip their grip, but the suckers and thick flesh only tightened around him. He kicked out at Schmidt, but he was nowhere close to connecting. He ignored the door opening and white coated men appearing just on the inside. They both carried obvious instruments for drawing blood; he had seen and experienced such devices before.

Schmidt reached up and plucked his map and compass from his chest vest pocket, examining the contents. He froze when the Skull flipped open his compass and was intent on the picture inside of it.

“Corporal, who is this woman?”

“Rumlow no,” Falsworth cried.

“That’s Agent Margaret Carter,” Rumlow said, ignoring the dismayed calls. “She’s liaison officer for the British in the SSR.” There was a pause and then Brock added, “she was the one who successfully freed and arranged transport for Erskine.”

“A resourceful strong woman,” the Skull mused, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “You know where to find her?”

He watched as Rumlow hesitated, covering the delay in answering with a cough. It was clear even then that Schmidt wasn’t buying the act. “I could find her, sir.”

“Good,” Schmidt remarked, examining the photo again. “The woman good enough for Captain America shall be good enough for me. I want her here within the hour.”

“Don’t you dare,” he heard himself snarling. Rumlow actually flinched.

“Corporal,” Schmidt barked coldly. “Within the hour.”

“Sir, there are other targets of greater import,” Rumlow dared to say, earning a sharp backhand from the Skull. The sound of leather meeting burned cheek was loud in the room. “There are world leaders to remove, countries to topple. I can get military and political leaders…”

Steve felt the tentacles around his legs loosen, but he only turned his head slightly to examine the seemingly featureless creature that held him. He shifted subtly but the tentacles did not tighten again, and he focused back at the scene unfolding in front of him. If he could just have a single moment with Schmidt’s back being turned…

“Why do you hesitate? You have your orders,” Schmidt remarked, appearing quizzical. “These men hate you and all those lives that are being snuffed out right now only serve to remind you of the side that you have chosen. You are a HYDRA operative. Act like one.”

He gently twisted his wrists and the tentacle loosened in their restraint. He shifted, setting his feet against the thick rubbery hide behind him. He breathed a deep breath and then shoved his way out of the hydra octopus’ grip and launched at Schmidt.

The Skull turned with a look of shock, but Rumlow suddenly blinked in between himself and HYDRA’s leader, arms thrown out protectively They both stopped dead staring at each other.

“I trusted you.”

“You were meant to,” Rumlow replied gruffly.

There was a sudden click that filled the metal cell, and Steve found his eyes dropping to where Schmidt was affixing odd looking cuffs around Rumlow’s wrists. They appeared to come alive, worming into Brock’s flesh before exploding with blue light which blinded him. It did not diminish the horrible shriek that ripped its way from Rumlow’s throat.

Steve side-stepped but was suddenly flattened but a horrible massive weight landing on top of him. Tentacles tore into his combat gear, shredding it until he found his flesh literally sinking into the flesh that trapped him. He struggled, his punching arms and thrashing legs only driving him deeper into the rubbery flesh that absorbed him.

He was drawn up again in time to see Schmidt securing Rumlow with similar looking cuffs around the ankles and neck. It didn’t appear that Brock was conscious anymore.

“Bloody hell,” Falsworth muttered softly.

“I’m getting real tired of everyone betraying everyone else,” Jones adding, clearly choosing that instead of a stronger swear word.

Schmidt ignored the commentary and waved the scientists deeper into the room. “Take the maximum amount of blood you can from him without exsanguinating him.”

“Yes, Heir Skull.”

He flared his nostrils and renewed his thrashing as the white coats approached him. His head was secured with a tentacle, and he issued a low groan as a thick needle was pressed into his jugular vein, watching as his blood was drained into vials.

“What are you going to do with him,” he demanded hotly as Rumlow’s unconscious body was hauled up by guards at Schmidt’s command.

“Take over the world. He will provide a gateway, and I will make full use of it,” Schmidt replied silkily. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll keep you alive long enough to see it, after you help me build an army of super-soldiers with your blood that is.”

Steve’s eyes darted to his comrades chained to the wall. “My men…”

The Skull simply smiled. “My fodder for experimentation.”

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The D-Day scene description was a mixture from Saving Private Ryan and the D-Day book by Stephen Ambrose. Saving Private Ryan is said to be the most historically accurate film of storming Omaha beach. I must have watched it 15 times to get a true sense of the chaos.
> 
> Condoms really were used to waterproof rifles. Apparently the only thing the soldiers couldn’t find a way to fit in one was their wallets.
> 
> Thank you for everyone who has stuck by me as I have worked my way through this or are just starting on the venture with me! Any comments and kudos are welcomed!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's only been close to a year since I updated this story, and it's probably long forgotten by most who took the time to read it. I apologize profusely to everyone that waited. No real excuses: I've had long-standing case of writer's block. It was always my intention to come back and finish this story though, and I've been plugging along little-by-little at the chapter. I can't promise that updates will be frequent, but I am intended to continue.
> 
> So far, the plan is 3 chapters of set up for the new world and then everyone gets to endure more of my action scenes.

 

 

*****  
**HYDRA Headquarters in Austrian Alps - February 1945**

He remembered it, even if he hadn’t been there. He’d seen enough to know how each city had fallen.

London, in reciprocation for D-Day and as a node of resistance, had fallen first. Churchill was killed, Eisenhower captured along with several heads of the united front. The SSR base in London had been the second mark, and Peggy Carter captured.

Jim Morita died of his injuries.

Washington D.C. had fallen two weeks after London. Ottawa, Sydney, Algeria had been marks that had occurred within days of each other, crushing the Commonwealth’s war contributors. The countries were sent into a disorganized chaos as their political and military heads were removed one-by-one in HYDRA’s version of a _Blitzkrieg_. The general people and soldiers were left alive unless they resisted.

Hitler had recalled Schmidt and demanded Stalingrad taken. The Skull had done as ordered, but Rumlow could still see where some of Hitler’s blood was baked into the side of his prison cell. They might have been like-minded, but neither had been one to share well with others and so Schmidt had toppled Nazi-Germany’s power structure in the same day as Stalingrad.

Tokyo had entrenched resistance, but it had fallen. All of its holdings were swept together into Nazi-Germany’s one that all came under the umbrella of HYDRA. The choice for many political and military leaders was simple: join or die.

For his part, his own resistance was limited. He was brought pictures of internal structures of specific parliamentary buildings, forced to study the details of each one and then transport the necessary troops to take that facility. It was how all the major capitals lost their heads of state, and even when he purposefully sent Schmidt’s soldiers into an abyss or wiped them clean, it was short-lived.

The Tesseract was both master and maker of his power, and his compliance was only duly necessary when directing the location and time. If he refused, She was brought to him, overloaded his senses and then it was almost unconscious thought that he did exactly as he had been ordered; he was a soldier at his core. He was trained to his basic instinct to _obey_ the command of a senior officer and Schmidt very much fell into that category.

So the world fell piece by piece.

Jacques Dernier died from a purposeful explosion detonated when the man had formulated a small bomb that had potential to break open the prisons.

Rumlow was worked for days straight, no time for food, sleep or bathroom breaks. His entire purpose was the mustering of forces to specific locations, and if he was on the verge of exhaustion, he was less likely to compile information together. He watched the HYDRA forces march, knew their number, their weapons and their location, but it was hard to recall their orders. Weeks at a time he was utilized, so the missions blurred together even as he tried to separate them.

Gabriel Jones escaped a prison cell and had a brief messy exchange with HYDRA guards. The man barely survived.

He learned to separate himself from his tasks enough to cast his mind through time to escape the reality of what his actions had caused and were continuing to cause. HYDRA victory was never supposed to look this way, yet a part of him relished the completion of his mission. To avoid the internal war that the Tesseract so often wanted to be a part of, he threw himself on questions that had long plagued him.

He found his eyes constantly cast towards family, and while his father was a near constant companion in his darkest times, he found a quiet peace overlooking events of his mother. He didn’t know her well, hadn’t care enough to consider her worthy of his attentions what with the bitterness of her passing when he was so young. He had considered her weak, throwing her life away when he had no way to defend himself, when he had needed her most.

But he found that she was a quietly potent woman. She had loved Pierce, but she had understood that their tryst was to be short-lived. That she had found herself with his heir had been a small revenge on his own abandonment of her, but the day that he had been born to her, she had found true love. Each night, she counted each of his fingers and toes, joyed at wild dark hair, and accepted his cries as the beginning signs of an ever escalating situation.

Subtly, she stepped in for a blow meant for him. She took his step-father’s rage so that he wouldn’t have to. And each night, when the mean drunk fell to sleep, she would walk, drag or shuffle her way to his bedroom when all was quiet and count each of his fingers and toes and brush her fingers through his dark hair. Silently, she would cry.

And the next morning, she would rise with bruises, broken bones, and abrasions to do so all over again. She gave more for longer than she expected.

Rumlow found himself softening towards her, even when the Tesseract invaded to liven his mother up, to make her more radiant than she had been, more skillful in her nursing, and more motherly than she had been openly. These changes both annoyed and fascinated him, as if the Tesseract was making some kind of attempt to please him. That seemed opposite for a more or less all powerful energy force. Often, She simply tittered at him after invading his mental reflections.

James “Monty” Falsworth became an interesting anomaly as curious powers began to develop and was transferred to thrash beneath the cruel orders of Madame Hydra.

With the world coming apart and HYDRA’s grip tightening like a noose around the sheer notion of freedom, a resistance was born. In the face of Schmidt’s egomania, it struggled to gather enough momentum. Most of it came in the form of deserters from the military, forming roving bands of highly trained units, none of whom could risk radio communications to coordinate.

Schmidt formed a force of some of the new specialty super soldiers, gave the group an objective to follow and an enemy to turn loose against. As it turned out, the new breed of super soldiers would quickly turn on each other if not occupied with some objective or another, forcing the Red Skull to have them cycling almost constantly on missions to prevent inter-unit combat. The power of the serum drove these men to compete heavily against each other.

Steve Rogers became a literal continual blood donor, reduced to a life of provided escape attempts designed to break the man’s spirit and then remove as much blood as possible without exsanguinating the man with no plan.

Of Zola, there was an increase in the research dedicated to advanced robotics. The little scientist had less to do with deployment and far more with weapon, armour and machinery development. The first prototypes of functioning basic robots began, accelerating with the acquisition of other like-minded robotics experts from various countries.

James Barnes became Zola’s favourite specimen, a survivor to the end. With the loss of a limb, there was a motion to use robotics to create an advanced prosthetic.

With the world falling into chaos, there was a small whisper of rebellion. Anymore than a whisper and HYDRA would become aware and snuff it out immediately. Freedom was an illusion, but every person struggled for control of their own actions. Small and secretive, it was necessary to take extreme care. So it was taken.

 

 

*****

It was the worst duty. Outside of serving the Skull and HYDRA, he could think of nothing he would least rather do. The single only benefit of the assigned task was that it allowed him to stretch his legs without the limits of shackles and chains. All other times, he was subjected to the limited range of motion treatment, long hours bent over scrap metal or the cold of his cell.

Timothy Dugan had survived not on the merit of personality, not even on the associations that he kept but solely because he and Falsworth had been subjected to previous experimentation. It alone kept him from some of the worst tortures that he had seen happen in this desolate place. According to Schmidt, there was always something to build upon unless one was already considered perfection. Neither he nor Falsworth were seen in such a light, so they lived as the world and war passed them by.

Each step was measured, careful on his part. He put one foot in front of the other, his shoulders held straight and stiff as he stared straight ahead, listening for the gentle jingle of buckles of his ‘guards’. If he moved too quickly, he was beaten. If he moved too slowly, he was beaten. If he dropped any of the meager supplies he carried to occupy his hands, he was beaten. It was HYDRA’s reminder that he and everyone else here considered prisoner was alive due to their captors alone and power was a pipe dream for them now.

By now, it was routine enough that the value of doing what his chaperones wanted the first time made the rest of this deplorable duty that much easier. Or at least bearable. He still hated it.

Dugan shifted the metal bucket to his right hand as they reached one of the major hallways of the HYDRA facility, his guards directing him to the right and the start of what had come to be known as the ‘blue’ hallway. This was where so much specialized personnel and armour had gone over the last few months, where previously this hallway had only been a meager service one that brought in and took out supplies. Now it was almost never used for such a paltry purpose.

This long and wide hallway could allow a common uber tank or a unit of HYDRA soldiers marching in formation to pass. At the very end, a set of massive steel enforced doors stood imposing, but today the three massive locking mechanisms were open. A single pair of guards stood at attention, watching them cross the distance with a bored interest.

This hallway always gave him the heebee jeebees. There was a hum of energy that made his ears pop and the muscles in his jaw jump. His greasy hair tried to stand on end but couldn’t even manage that, but the effect was the same. If he could, he would never ever cross into the room beyond, and he sometimes wondered how HYDRA soldiers did it looking stone-faced and determined every single time.

Dugan still shuffled his way down the hallway, stopping to allow his guards the honour of introducing him and his purpose. As if they didn’t all know by now. It was the usual game to mock him, and normally his temper would have flared and decked one of them, but… he had grown out of that habit months ago.

The resulting beatings weren’t worth escaping this. Sometimes he was given over to Zola, which was the worst torture imaginable.

The posted guards took their time shouldering the heavy door open, regardless of it being on oiled hinges that were smooth and easy to push. He drew in a deep breath and marched into the room and to his duty that awaited him, no longer fearing repercussions of moving too quickly. His guards would stand by the door and give him the honour of his duty. In reality, they wanted to stay as far away from it as possible.

The room was considered massive. It had once been relatively empty, but as the world fell, more and more items to boost power had been gathered and stored here along the walls. What once was supply storage now held the powers of the known world, but the centerpiece of this massive and cold room was the round gateway that stood smack dab in the middle of it.

It was twenty meters high and thirty meters wide, round until it was embedded in the floor. The giant portal was steel on steel with snakes of insulated wires and pipes curling around it and creating a hazard to the sides of it. Normally it hummed with blue energy, but today it was empty and silent, which might have been even more eerie if he hadn’t been here many times before. The source of most people’s suffering was absence from its insulated throne, the Tesseract clearly having been removed so he couldn’t tamper with it. Or, knowing Schmidt, the Tesseract was never too far away from the man anymore when not in use.

Dugan glanced to his duty, which was a ten-foot tall glass cylinder that was directly hooked through wires to both the Tesseract and the silent portal. It was backed into a steel hollow and now a permanent fixture to this place. A part of him suspected that there might have been duplicates in other areas of the world, but he had nothing to back up his assumptions. Building suspicions was about as much entertainment as he could think up.

Huffing, he walked over to the water trough and dunked his bucket into the water. He hauled his bucket up and carried it over to the glass cylinder, working the lock from the hook so that he could swing the heavy door open. The smell that assaulted him left him coughing and choking. He was all too glad he wasn’t fed before this duty because he would lose it on the floor.

“…you’re late…”

Timothy frowned and shook his head, looking in through watery eyes into the cylinder. “You’re still standing.”

“…touché…”

Dugan hated Rumlow, but it was hard to cling to that supreme dislike when he saw what his former comrade had been reduced to. His hate had lost considerable heat over the last few months in doing this, now a dull throb of reminder for all that they had lost because of this man. The betrayal had been as destructive as everything else that had followed in its wake, and yet, Rumlow had become as much a victim of this war as every other prisoner of this place, perhaps more because Schmidt took considerable pride running Rumlow to the teetering edge of personal destruction.

“How is HYDRA’s favourite battery doing today,” he asked as he forced himself to reach inside to unhook the collar from the chain at the back of the tube. Even holding his breath, the meisma of ammonia stung his eyes.

“I stink,” Rumlow said, looking weary even underneath all that filth.

“Come on, out you come,” Dugan said, letting the Corporal make the attempt. He actually wanted to avoid touching the man as long as humanly possible.

Brock staggered to the lip of the cylinder, grasped the edges and failed to make the step out. The ‘coon stumbled and fell, splaying across the cement floor all limbs with an audible wet sound.

Normally, Rumlow would have snarled and swore, ready to fight everyone; now, the man barely had enough strength to sit up. Just as normally, he would have jeered and snapped some comment about deserving everything this place gave the guy. Now, he swallowed the pity that threatened to twitch his moustache.

Physically, the Corporal was exactly as Dugan remembered him, at the prime of fitness and with a full head of hair. There was the usual scuff of stubble along cheeks and chin. There were differences now though what with how Rumlow’s eyes were more blue then brown and the cuffs around the man’s neck and wrists were loose. Obvious burn marks he could see around the metal, a type he had no idea what it might be. Those burns were infected and oozed pus, but the cuffs were never, ever to be removed by order of the Skull.

Rumlow was one of the hardest worked prisoners in this facility except for perhaps Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. So long were the man’s days of labour, that there were no bathroom breaks, and he had no idea if Rumlow was actually given food to survive or if the energy of the Tesseract was now sufficient for life. Instead, the Corporal was covered from the waist down of evidence of basic human necessity, piss and shit mucking up the bottom of the cylinder and significant portions of Rumlow’s skin.

His task was the clean the Corporal up for another week of long slave labour.

Dugan sighed and grabbed his bucket, hauling it up and upending it on Rumlow’s head. It washed away the freshest of excrement and urine to the drain nearby though did not in fact improve the smell much. The guards stationed offered only a chuckle as he tried to side-step the dirty water.

He glared at the stationed guards even as he reached down and grabbed Rumlow by the arm to haul the man up. It took both of them a concerted effort to move from the cylinder to the trough and what might have been a united front to get Rumlow into the cold water.

When he was certain that Rumlow had hooked arms around the walls of the trough and wouldn’t just drown, he moved further down to fill his bucket again. The water here was supposed to be for washing tanks to reduce the risk of contaminated soil from being tracked around the facility. It could be used for men’s boots and weapons if necessary, but today it would be used solely to rinse out the cylinder in which Rumlow had lived the last months.

And so he went to work. He dumped buckets of water into the housing tube and scrubbed down the walls of filth. Back and forth he went hauling water, more scrubbing until it smelled like someone could actually live in there. He dumped some vinegar and lye on the floor and left the door open to air out before returning to the trough again.

Rumlow looked to be dozing, this being the only time the man could sit or lay down. The soak had done well to loosen some of the pure muck from the Corporal’s skin regardless of how cold it was. His fingers were numb from both scrubbing and the water, but if he stopped or paused, the guards would impress upon him the gravity of his duty.

He grabbed a cloth from his bucket and rinsed it out under the massive tab, using the meager bar of soap that was left there in hopes there was enough of it to spread actual cleanliness. He rubbed it in the cloth and returned, plunging his hand into the water to retrieve one of Rumlow’s legs. He had learned long ago to just plain not bother asking; there had been times when the Corporal couldn’t even string three words together.

He began to scrub the man’s skin, ignoring the eyes that watched him. Today was clearly a good day given the level of consciousness. He figured it was both a blessing and a curse.

“I should apologize,” Rumlow uttered softly, dark lashes heavy over the man’s glowing eyes.

“Your apologies are too damn late and just as meaningless,” Timothy said, an edge to his tone which urged the other man to shut the hell up.

Brock seemed to not care, which didn’t surprise him. “You being here doing this, I meant.”

He looked up, his moustache bristling and the cloth scrubbing harder. “And not about anything else?”

“You wouldn’t accept that apology regardless.”

Well, that was entirely true, and he relented on his rough treatment as he got up to Rumlow’s knee. Nothing that the guy would say would bring back Jim or Phillips or every other poor soul that had been steamrolled in Schmidt’s takeover of the world. He didn’t think he could or ever would forgive Rumlow either, and they had never particularly wasted words with each other, always straight or so he thought. Now he had nothing better than to think about what might be a lie and what was the truth.

He grumbled and switched to the other foot. Maybe if he ignored the Corporal then there would be a tense silence between them only. Of course, that made him realize how starved he was for conversation and his overactive mind provided him with the idea that Rumlow was probably just as deprived.

Timothy finally bit. “Why is this your fault?”

Something in Rumlow’s bearing gave way and the other man relaxed into the trough of cold water like the temperature wasn’t at all bothersome. “I asked for you.”

He looked up and shifted his upper lip so that his moustache appeared to be sweeping across his lower one. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“The Skull was going to choose someone for the duty because the shit was almost up to my knees by the time he thought it might not be the best environment to be used in. Plus, his scientists couldn’t stand the smell of me,” Rumlow murmured softly, keeping voice low so that it wasn’t that apparent that they were having their first real conversation since 1944. “I requested you.”

Dugan managed to keep on scrubbing up Rumlow’s leg. He remembered vividly the first time he had performed this duty, and it had been as disgusting and disturbing as the Corporal described. He actually hadn’t been able to eat for three days after it.

“Your point, ‘coon,” he finally asked as he reached out to grab one of Rumlow’s hands.

“You would never let go of your hate for what I did. That meant that when you got into the routine of this and everyone relaxed their guard around you doing this, I could tell you things,” Rumlow muttered, wincing as he cleaned around the cuff.

Dugan wished he had a clean cloth to properly clean the infected burns. “What kind of things?”

“HYDRA operations. Where Steve is. How much of the resistance is left,” Rumlow muttered, shifting in the trough.

“What makes you think I would believe anything that you said,” he replied, acid raising his voice slightly. They were still too far away from the guards to hear, but he ducked his head to his work anyway. “You’re a liar and a traitor. The world is in this mess because of you.”

“Yes, it is,” Rumlow agreed softly.

They fell into a tense silence, one that he thought might actually stick this time. He had worked his way up Rumlow’s arm to the shoulder, intermittently dipping the cloth into the water in an attempt to clean it out before the next scrubbing session. Sheets of oil, dead skin, and dirt sloughed off of the Corporal, and it sickened him most of all that he was no longer as bothered by such a sight anymore. It had become a part of a duty.

He paused when Rumlow shifted up in the tub, given how the man had previously been sinking closer and closer to being fully submerged. “They keep Steve in the labs, always straddling the line between complete exsanguination and just heavily anemic. They keep him in the labs to both keep an eye on him and because it’s a pain to move him.”

Dugan found his hands hard at work but his ear pricked towards the information, the first that he had heard of Steve in as many months. A part of him had always hoped that the US-created super soldier had escaped and was gathering the fractured powers of the world together. It seemed to be a daydream on his part, though a wary part of him was on high alert for lies. It felt like a legitimate truth, but then again, so had almost everything else that had come out of Rumlow’s mouth over the course of the campaign.

Yet, if this information _was_ good, it could play to his advantage. What advantage that was, he had no idea given how heavily the few of them left were guarded as ‘prized experiments’. It was true that the guard had been relaxed around them, but a single wrong move on his part could destroy all of that. As impatient as he was for action, he instead forced himself to listen only.

Dugan couldn’t help the hungry need for information that Rumlow pricked into being. “Go on,” he urged more forcefully than he would have liked.

Rumlow lifted glowing blue eyes rimmed with brown to stare at him. It was a very unnerving sight, but he continued to scrub at a particularly stubborn patch at the Corporal’s elbow. “When you leave here today, forget the cloth.”

He frowned dubiously. “I’ll be beaten.”

“You will earn something far greater,” Rumlow replied mysteriously.

Was this a test? It was probably a test to see if he would do as the once-ally had requested, and Dugan was not inclined to earn a beating without knowing _why_ he was doing so. He was far more inclined to do exactly opposite to anything that Rumlow said, though he could admit a flare of defiant curiosity as to why he had been given those instructions.

Instead, he let his moustache bristle and shifted it side-to-side like an angry broom. “I’m not taking a beating on account to you telling me to,” he replied coldly.

He withdrew his touch so that he could wash out the cloth, though at this point… what good would it do? The whole thing was filthy and he finally gave up wringing it out and scrubbed it against the side of the trough in a new attempt at cleaning it. Next to him, Rumlow was watching but silent, expression so well-guarded that he couldn’t even hope to discern what the man was thinking.

Dugan stood and stepped around behind where Rumlow was leaning on the edge of the tub, grabbing for the opposite arm so that he could scrub. It also put him in a unique position of being able to watch his guards lazily chatting and only half-watching what he was doing. They indeed had let their guard down, assuming that neither he nor Rumlow would muster any defiance.

As he pressed the cloth to slide down Rumlow’s shoulder, there was a snap of blue energy that nipped at his fingertips. It reminded him of youth and rubbing his bare feet on carpet only to zap himself or his siblings.

“If you have that much energy, we could take the guards,” he suggested, testing Rumlow’s loyalty.

“To what end,” came the tired reply. “You have no plan, no weapons, and certainly no way out.”

Dugan rubbed harder than he meant to along Rumlow’s arm. “That’s what you’re here for. You can blink around like a firefly.”

“Not with these,” Rumlow said, lifting wrists to shift the cuffs. “And you wouldn’t trust me not to betray you again anyway.”

It was true, all of it. The very nature of the truth soured him, and he huffed angrily as he continued to clean the Corporal’s left arm. Dugan was so used to just following a plan on the fly for most of their missions, one that always changed. He was also better fed, better equipped and with better allies to work with back then.

Timothy seized Rumlow’s wrist carefully, cleaning around the cuff, though at this point, his cloth was so dirty, he thought that only a good soak would remove the aggravated signs of infection of the burns around them. He still did what he could and the Corporal didn’t even wince as he swiped the burns even if it must hurt.

He pulled the cuff from where it had settled against the base of Rumlow’s hand up as much as he could along the man’s forearm to have a new angle. His pinky finger settled on a sharp depression in the foreign metal, and he turned the cuff to catch sight of the possible flaw.

It was a keyhole. It wasn’t shaped like any key that he had seen, but it was obviously there specifically for that purpose. He was certain he had seen and felt it before, but it had never seemed important like now.

He frowned and went back to his work, though he turned his head so that he could closely examine the collar that clung snugly to Rumlow’s neck. An identical key hole was at the back, no doubt latching the collar on.

Dugan considered that, his eyes meeting Rumlow’s as the Corporal’s head turned to regard him, seemingly reading his thoughts on the matter. Free Rumlow and the man could create all manner of havoc, though he’d sooner just leave those restraints on and simple have control of where to direct Rumlow’s power. It was safer given their history. Nothing in life was ever that easy though.

“Who has the key?”

Rumlow made a rude sound. “Schmidt.”

No surprise there. It seemed personal to keep control over the strongest ‘allies’ that the Skull had at this point. It was probably also why the Tesseract was only handled by that red-faced sadist.

Timothy was also of the opinion that acquiring the key would be as easy as running around with the Tesseract or Steve at this point. He had had very few dealings with Schmidt and none of them had been pleasant. They had also never allowed him close enough to search for a key either, and he was certain that situation was not going to change any time soon.

“Forget the cloth,” Rumlow said softly.

“Will that get me a chance encounter with Schmidt?” That was something he was _not_ prepared to endure at this point.

“No, but it will with someone who has more than they like,” the ‘Coon replied

“Zola?” He could take Zola in a fight. Little scrawny thing would break in half right over his thigh.

Rumlow’s head turned to regard him, strangely blue eyes peering at him. “Carter.”

Dugan felt himself still in shock, his heart surely missing one beat. His mouth hung open comically for a moment before he invested himself in his cleaning, even if his brain was stalled on the idea of meeting up with ol’ Peggy. No one knew what happened to her, and he had assumed her dead along with Phillips. There had been rumours that she had been brought in, that Rumlow had done it personally, but at that point, his life had been a world of pain and experimentation. News didn’t travel that fast down in the experimental subject dungeons.

However, to think that Peggy had been here all this time and not been dumped in the dungeons, it forced him to acknowledge that she had probably be placed somewhere far worse. Maybe in Zola’s little part of the lab or where Steve was. Schmidt had personally experimented on Rumlow, so it made sense that the Red Skull might take personal interest in Agent Carter as well.

Peggy was a tough broad, not one to cross and highly effective. She would have to be restrained. She could work a weapon as well as any man, command as well as any Colonel, and spy better than anyone he had ever known. He personally couldn’t see her being used for the usual cliché entertainment of soldiers given that she would probably kill them all with a hair pin.

The very idea of her presence, even a fleeting meeting, made his spirit soar. A friendly face was a simple pleasure that he was not allowed often. He no longer found the idea of leaving the cloth behind to be unreasonable, though a gun-shy part of his brain reminded him that all of this could be a trap. He could not see where Rumlow benefited from betraying and lying to him at this point, since the Corporal would still be stuck in that tube and without him, Rumlow would be covered in filth until some other poor bastard was chosen for the honour of cleaning shit and piss from the man.

He certainly would hate the beating that he would receive, but the prize was no longer uncertain. A chance encounter with Peggy would be worth it, he told himself. It took a few moments of scrubbing to convince his now trembling hands of that fact. He would leave the cloth behind.

“She can get close to Schmidt,” he asked softly, just to unnecessarily clarify.

“Closer than she likes I imagine,” Rumlow remarked coldly. “But further away than when she was first brought here.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll find out,” the ‘Coon said. It wasn’t a taunt and also left no room for questioning. Rumlow would not give up that information regarding the comment.

Timothy simply shook his head and rinsed out the filthy cloth. He washed around the collar and Rumlow’s face and then gestured to the other end of the trough where water was fresher. He didn’t help the Corporal up, but he followed and observed as Rumlow grasped the edges of the trough and went head first into the water, wetting down greasy hair.

The last task was washing out those locks which were shaggier and longer, but not nearly as much as he would have predicted. There were aspects of Rumlow that just seemed to stay constant, and the hair happened to be one of them.

Still, he used the very last of the soap bar to lather up the black locks, ignoring the way long lines of bubbles marched down the Corporal’s bare flesh. The bubbles only emphasized how pale Rumlow had become and it certainly did nothing to hide the scars and signs of mistreatment. In fact, the pale flesh made him keenly aware of the criss-crossing long line scars on Rumlow’s back. He’d never asked, but he admitted to being curious.

Dugan didn’t bring up the subject, just grabbed his bucket and filled it with water several times, each one ending up dumping water over Rumlow’s head and washing away the soap residue. That done, he set the bucket at the end of the trough and his dirty worthless cloth on the side of the water pump rather than his bucket.

He even helped the Corporal out of the trough of filthy water and back to the man’s imprisonment. From there, he only watched Rumlow climb back in, and he wondered why there was no fight. He didn’t inquire.

Instead, he locked the Corporal inside again, their eyes lingering on each other. One of his guards marched over to check that he had successfully locked Rumlow inside and then barked an order for him to gather his items to return it to storage for next week.

With one last lingering look, Timothy returned to his items at the end of the trough and picked up his bucket. He didn’t even flick a look at the cloth, and he had by now done this enough that his guards also simply accepted that he would have all the items of his ‘trade’ within the confines of his bucket.

He left the massive room behind to shamble his way between his two guards back through the long cool hallways back to the supply closet where he had to sign his items to the German there. As he shuffled his way through the hallways, his eyes moved around in search for signs of Agent Carter, but aside from armed guards, trolleys moving weapons, and food supplies on low-bed trucks, there was no sign. He felt a stab of panic when he reached the supply depot with nothing but a bucket.

Maybe the supply manager wouldn’t notice? It wasn’t even a shred of material worth burning at this point.

It was noticed immediately. His guards seemed as shocked and then angry by his momentary forgetfulness. He was jabbed in the left kidney with the butt of a rifle.

“Vhere did you leave it?” That was a mean tone if he ever heard one. He wanted to punch the asshole right in the kisser.

Instead, he forced himself into the humiliating position of shaking across his shoulders and sweeping his moustache across his lower lip nervously. Play the part. Be a little like Rumlow. “I-I must have left it. I thought I had it…”

“Idiot American!”

He took the butt of the rifle to the cheek and went down with as much pain and acting skill that he suspected Rumlow would grin at him. Maybe even Steve. He splayed awkwardly on the cold cement, bowing his head to the floor and doing whatever he could to look miserable. He received a kick to the ribs for his efforts and one to his cheek, which split the flesh and caused him to bleed profusely.

“Enough, Herr Schmidt was strict. Go and retrieve the missing items.” They were speaking in rapid German now, an exchange he could pick up a few words to.

Dugan found himself dragged to his feet and sneered at, and if he wasn’t on a mission, he might have raised a fist to the bastards. Instead, he pulled his lips back into a grin and put up his hands as he turned around and was jabbed and prodded with rifle butts back down the hallways.

They had just stepped out of the supply hallway into the main one that he knew ran the length of the entire facility when a large contingent of Schmidt’s personal and most loyal guards marched in formation. In the middle of their midst strutted a woman that he would recognize anywhere, even minus the usual red lipstick and the manner in which she curled her brown locks. Peggy walked as if she could never been bent or broken.

Their eyes met as he came to a stop, lifting a hand to wipe at the blood flowing down his cheek. His guards also stopped behind him, flanking him as they were forced to give way to the far more important contingent of men and single woman.

“Ma’am,” he said, wishing that he had taken an opportunity to bathe in the trough. He bowed his head, tapping his fingers against his forehead because of the absence of bowler cap to sweep from his head. He knew that she would understand the gesture. “A fine day to you.”

The guard on his left stomped on his foot as a pointed order to shut up.

“Mr. Dugan,” Peggy said, stopping when they were about to pass. The ten guards that surrounded her were forced to do the same or risk falling out of formation. They hissed like a hive of angry bees, but Agent Carter ignored them and pressed a hand to one of the HYDRA soldier’s shoulders to push the man forward two steps. He was surprised that the man went at all.

The reason for their presence and their deference became obvious a moment later as Peggy stepped clear of their midst wearing nothing but silk slippers and a white dress that only seemed to make the swell of her belly more obvious. She looked radiant. If it weren’t for the delicately engraved manacles, she would almost seem like a willing participant to the whole affair that she found herself in.

Their guards seemed frozen for the moment, uncertain who to punish or shuffle away from the other. It was clear that both of them were very much outmatched, and yet, there was no particular order set down because this encounter was rigged by a man that lived in a tube with only the smell of vinegar to be company at present.

Timothy felt his expression harden at the sight of her, radiant or not. “Miss Carter,” he replied. “There seems to be more of you than when we last met.”

“Well, unlike you, I am actually fed and clothed,” she replied, her smile as sharp as a finely honed knife. “Mr. Dugan, you appear to be bleeding.”

“Ah, you know me, ma’am, always in trouble.”

“Indeed,” Peggy said, glancing at his guards as if she had the right to command or punish them. “Herr Schmidt has seen fit to allow your scruffy self to wander the hallways.”

Dugan cracked a small grin. “Only for a duty of cleaning out a human sty. My mind isn’t quite as sharp as when I was soldiering, so I forgot my cloth behind.”

She stepped up to him and one of her special guards barked a word of German at her. If she understood – and he knew she did – she made no attempt to stop her actions. Instead, she pulled a white silk cloth from her sleeve and reached up to press it to his cheek, mopping at the blood that oozed from his injury. That same guard reached out to grip her shoulder to tug her away, but the moment his hand settled on her flesh, she twisted like a woman who was not currently carrying six pounds of child and all that came with it as she turned and slapped the man on the cheek with a resounding crack.

“Place a hand on me again, _Hauptmann_ , and I will see that it is removed,” Agent Carter said coldly. She turned back to him almost immediately and returned to wiping as his wound, investigating it with keen knowledgeable fingers. “The swelling shall seal the wound soon. You shouldn’t scar if you don’t pick at it.”

Dugan bowed his head into her hand, and he realized in that moment that this was the first kind hand that he had endured in seven months. It felt like much longer. He couldn’t help himself when he reached out with a dirty, reeking hand and touched her cheek in return as if to confirm that she were real.

“Doctor Fraust is waiting,” the guard injected coldly.

Instead, Timothy found himself losing all energy to hold himself together as tears rose in his eyes, and he hadn’t the heart to even be embarrassed by them. They spilled down his cheeks, and without care for the punishment he would receive, he threw his big male body against Peggy’s much smaller round one and cried into her shoulder.

His sobs were embarrassingly loud, the cries of a broken man who had only just in that moment realized how shattered he had become. He knew his dirty face and his tears were ruining her dress, felt the warmth of her swollen belly against his own, and the feel of her hands carding through his filthy greasy hair.

Their guards stood mute to the display. Maybe all along, it had been what they had been ordered to watch for with regards to him.

“Let me tell you a story, Timothy,” Peggy said, cradling his head to her shoulder. “My countrymen breathe, my allies broken to pieces, yet wheat still grows in the fields, people still rise each day to the same sun, and within me, I know there is strength in this world. It’s infectious.”

He nodded his head, just drinking in the words between breathy sobs. He didn’t entirely hear them but memorized them anyway as he was going to need something to think about. “There’s a fella rotting and regenerating from the inside. I heard of a man who suffers from continual losses but refuses to die.”

“Tenacious bastard,” Agent Carter replied, making it clear that she knew of whom he spoke. “Does the man with the rot require medical attention?”

“No, he mends as quickly as he’s hurt,” he replied, shaking his head. “Schmidt has the power to free him but seems to like watching him covered in filth instead.” He hiccupped a sob, aware that he was drained enough that it would be best that the separate soon. “Tell me… when is the little one due?”

“Two months,” Peggy said, voice cool as if having long ago accepted it. “I admit that I grow tired of being kicked in the kidneys or being unable to find a comfortable position to sleep in.”

“It’s Schmidt’s heir,” he asked softly, pulling back enough to be able to see her expression.

She watched him with hooded eyes, but he knew her well enough to see a shadow of pain and anger filter through her gaze. “The child is mine, and that’s what matters most.”

“I’m sorry,” he found himself saying and meant it. She softened in reply and wiped his drying tears with her blood soiled handkerchief. “I wish it had gone differently.”

“No,” Agent Carter told him firmly. “Accept what is and fight like Hell for what will be.”

Dugan slowly nodded his head, taking her hand with the dirty handkerchief and kissing her fingers. He released her and stepped back, only to find her pressing the white cloth into his hand and stepping back into the wide suspicious reach of her entourage, all of whom closed like a trap around her.

“Now you have your cloth, Sergeant Dugan. Take it to the supply manager and accept no more punishment,” she said and allowed herself to be marched off down the hallway. She had been the first one to comfort him and also the first to call him by his rank in so long that it was a struggle to bow his head, wipe at his eyes roughly and shuffle back to face his guards.

They shifted where they stood on either side of him, finally muttering in German to one another. He stood clutching the white soiled cloth and waited for their order on what to do. Even with his limited experience here, he could tell their two options: make him retrieve the old forgotten cloth to hide this incidence or allow him to hand in the silk cloth and be aware that Schmidt would come to know he had been given an item by Peggy. The incident might be written off given how busy Schmidt was with taking over the world.

In the end, he was shoved and ushered back to where he had bathed Rumlow in order to collect his cloth. His eyes flicked to where the Corporal was held captive, and despite a distinct lack of acknowledgement, he knew that something had been set in motion.

The small pebble of opportunity that could start a landslide of action.

Dugan made no complaints when he had to hand in both clothes to the supply manager, though he considered fighting for the silk one, soiled or not. Both were examined and the silk one given back to one of his guards, and then he was escorted back to his small grimy cell. He was locked up and left alone save for the low moans of other prisoners in his block.

When he tried to find a comfortable spot on the floor as far away from the door as possible, he found himself unable to sleep. He stared at the patrolling guards as they moved along the block until there was something warm against his neck between one moment and the next. He swatted at it, thinking it vermin and came away with a blood-stained white silk cloth instead.

The edges crackled with blue energy so briefly, he thought it might be his imagination. He still clutched it in his hand and held it to his nose, breathing in the scent.

It was nothing special. Just clean. Within its soft confines, Timothy Dugan felt hope for the first time in many months.

 

 

*****

It was cold. When he fought for consciousness, it felt as if he fought through thick substance that filled his head with syrup. It was and always had been a disconcerting sensation, and he hadn’t the energy to panic. Everything was about conserving his strength, little though it had become, waiting and ready to use an opportunity that might finally present itself. _Perhaps this time_ had become a constant mantra whenever he could be active enough to be considered conscious.

Steve Rogers was finally awake, able to flutter his eyes open and peer through thick blond lashes. His body felt heavy and distant, like it was weighted with disease or lead, neither of which was true. He was restrained, of course, but he had stopped bothering to jerk and thrash in the shackles that held him because they were a reminder of his situation and not actually effective at keeping him in one place if he wanted to waste the energy to break free.

The fact of the matter was that he was so drained of blood that he could barely keep to his feet long enough to take a few steps even if he did. The shackles made considerable noise when broken though, and their chains sent vibrations up into the ceiling to call on his true keeper, the rubbery incredibly strong Hydra, a creature made of men and probably just as much a prisoner as he was.

He was rarely given opportunity to come to consciousness, at least not consciousness that required him to perceive things. Of course, he came awake here and there, floating and hazy enough that few memories actually stuck with him. His willingness wasn’t necessary for his venipunctures that drained him of what blood he had managed to produce after the last pull. All he was required to do right now was lay quiet and produce blood.

If he sorted through the jagged hazy memories that he had, he could distantly recall the sound of men screaming, and there were times where soldiers in strange uniforms were escorted by him as if showing off a prized stallion. Those soldiers from what he could remember were smug and mean, the type of men that made his blood boil… if he had any left to spare for such an endeavor.

Steve had no doubt in his mind that his blood was being utilized to create an army of super soldiers. The quickest way to take over the world for Schmidt was the greatest show of power with the least amount of friendly casualties.

Why was he awake though?

His eyes fluttered, seeking to remain open but failing twice. On the third try, he managed to focus on the stone ceiling above him, studying the metal girders that acted as support. They shouldn’t have been interesting, yet he found his eyes slowly working over them, picking out each of the bolts before everything gave way to a black hole slightly to his left. His chains disappeared up into that depth, but aside from a wet patch on one of the ledges, he could see no sign of the Hydra that lurked up there.

He shifted in the straps that held him to the table, feeling the slow ache of muscles coming awake and the thick full-bodied fatigue that gripped him. Purposefully, he flicked his right hand, cracking the manacle against the metal edge of the table, and he watched the chain tremble and sway slightly.

There was no sound, but a tentacle slithered out of the darkness to curl around the moving chain, stilling it. He didn’t understand why, more because he couldn’t focus enough to ponder than because his intelligence was so limited. He was just so tired.

As far as he knew, the Hydra was more or less his constant companion. He smiled as a second tentacle slithered out and hung down into the open air below the hovel in which the creature lived.

“H-hey buddy,” he called softly. Did Hydra tentacle monsters have ears? “What’s a handsome fella like you doin’ in a place like this?”

Steve knew this wasn’t the first time that he had spoken to the Hydra before, but he couldn’t exactly recall when or the content. It was all hazy, but he suspected that any conversation was better than nothing for them both. The times in which he was conscious enough to have a conversation were few and far between. It made him wonder if today was testing day.

Still, he blinked slowly, tiredly even as the main bulk of the Hydra creature appeared, all pink flesh and dark uneven blotting. The face area was blank save two massive eyes that peered down as it slithered and flopped gracelessly from its hovel in the ceiling. It came with a soft splat of flesh, boneless and blubbery.

He shifted his left hand, opening it palm up. A tentacle slithered into it, curling and the flesh was cool and slightly clammy. He was not repulsed, not even as he turned his head to regard the rising mass that was probably supposed to be a head.

Yet, he noted an odd patch of dark purple on one side, only strange because it looked more like a bruise than the usual dark blot which he somehow recalled being thought of as the last remnants of heads. He found it mesmerizing enough to stare and then he slowly closed his eyes to return to sleep.

In no time, his hand was shaken and he came back to himself. So rare were these opportunities that he could not allow himself to squander them. Rare perhaps for both of them.

“Are you hurt?”

The head wobbled dangerously, but it was a distinct enough ‘no’ motion that he understood. That was all they had with each other, yes or no questions. They had tried hand gestures once or twice, but Steve couldn’t dedicate enough mental energy most of the time to sort out the meanings.

“Is that a bruise?” No was the reply. “Are you changing colour?” No. “Why do you have that purple patch?”

The tentacle around his hand gave a squeeze, a reminder. Right yes, only affirmative or negative responses. He gave a small squeeze of his hand in reply.

“Did someone die?” Yes.

Steve turned his head to regard the relatively featureless flesh, his eyebrows knitting together as he sorted out the potential. He knew that the Hydra was made up of many people, hence the size and strength of the creature, and he was always aware that those individuals had some kind of uniquely personal thoughts. He even knew those individuals could be killed, remembering from way back when he had met the Hydra in the underwater research lab. As a general rule, the personal elements of the creature were united in purpose.

Only one thought came to mind as to the reason. “Were you sent into combat?”

A head shake, wobblier than usual.

He hummed and laid his head back on the table, closing his eyes only to rest. “You need to be careful, pal. You’re my only friend right about now.”

He didn’t see it, but he felt the way that two more tentacles touched against his side and leg, curling around him securely. The scent of the sea came as the Hydra crept closer, practically oozing around his table in an attempt to be close. Maybe to have a moment of contact with another human being; all the same, he gave the tentacle still gripping his hand a gentle squeeze.

There was a pneumonic hiss as a door opened followed by soft foot falls. Tentacles receded like the tide from touching him, pulling away subtly like a child trying to avoid detection. He made no effort to keep the Hydra close.

“Your services are not required. Get,” a crude voice snarled, banishing the Hydra like a mangy cur.

Steve opened his eyes to watch the Hydra grip the chains hooked into the ceiling and hauled its massive bulk up towads its hovel, one tentacle over another tentacle until it disappeared from sight again.

“Bye, pal,” he called softly.

“Enough,” the doctor barked at him. “That foul creature is alive by Herr Schmidt’s good graces.”

“God Bless Herr Schmidt,” he quipped with as much sarcasm as he could manage in his tired state.

“Hmpt, you are more likable unconscious, American.”

Slowly, he turned his head to look over at the tall lanky man who failed to even fill the doorway. Most noticeable was the man’s displaced nose, like it had been broken one too many times, so it was flattened and hooked to the right. Those dark eyes were flinty and aggressive, peering at him in the same way that no doubt the Hydra was regarded. An experiment of old kept alive by the good graces of the head of HYDRA.

They sized each other up before the lithe doctor approached and began to use the winding lever to begin tilting his table up. It was a relatively slow process, but it gave him both elation at being ‘upright’ and dread at the waves of light-headedness that assaulted him as the extent of his anemia made itself plainly known. His chains shifted with the change, but the Hydra did not appear to investigate.

Instead, someone completely unwanted appeared through the glass doors that separated his small enclosure from the rest of the medical facility. His was not the only cell here, but it was the only one with glass doors that remained on smooth running tracks built into the floor and ceiling. The doors could be manually or electronically opened, and as far as he could tell, the locking mechanism was more intense than necessary given the main content of the door was glass. It was all about perceptions, he had come to expect.

Johann Schmidt walked with the same domineering superiority that he could recall, but it was quite amazing that the leader of HYDRA hadn’t bothered to return to the masked face. Perhaps loyalists no longer cared to see the red skinned skull or even considered it an oddity, given that Schmidt was basically a god among the strict HYDRA following.

“Ah, my good Captain, it is good to see you awake after so long having you fitful and anemic,” the red skull opened with, testing him with cordial comments.

“Still anemic,” Steve replied, shrugging his shoulders like it was a state that no longer bothered him. “Have you come to give me the weather report?”

Johann covered any displeasure at his reactions with a smug smirk. He was able to look Schmidt in the eye given the position of the table, and he did just that. “It is good to see you in such good spirits. A few weeks ago my medical staff were concerned that you were being pushed too hard, but I assured them that you are far too stubborn to die.”

He was having trouble keeping his head up of his own volition, and he trembled as he shifted in his restraints. It was a weakness that reminded him of his youth, so it didn’t undermine his confidence like he suspected the Red Skull had hoped it would. The righteous smirk was telling, but he refused to be baited into searching for the reason for this visitation. It was not a card he’d play from his very small limited deck.

Instead, he took his time watching Schmidt, studying a man who had had come to hate immensely over however long he had been here. “So how long do you plan on keeping me here like this? I don’t even receive a copy of the morning paper; lousy service, Schmidt.”

“How I have not missed your tongue wagging, Captain,” Johann replied with a feigned casualness. “But your blood is ever so useful.”

“More superior to your own then?”

“Hardly, but unlike you, I require my faculties to be at my best. Down here you are putting your best foot forward for the war, so to speak.” Schmidt looked him over and returned to smirking at him, those hands easing backwards to fold behind the skull’s back. “However, since you are eager for word, I will give it to you. Your precious America has fallen.”

Steve squinted at Schmidt, but he also knew that such a message would not be delivered without proof or at least close enough truth to be reality. If he had more blood to spare, he was certain it would be boiling in his veins right now, not sinking towards his toes to pool.

“Given the population, I hardly doubt that,” he finally mustered.

“Oh, there are still a few pockets of resistance here and there, but every state capital is safely in HYDRA’s hands and despite the continued prattling of fifth amendment, your country is in my grasp. Besides, there is no fifth amendment anymore… or first, second, third or fourth for that matter.” Schmidt rocked slightly, thoroughly enjoying this. Maybe it even made the Red Skull’s day.

Steve tried to muster together the energy to do more than glare. His tongue felt slow and wooden in his mouth, but he knew that he had to reply. There had to be some witty comment that would peel back that arrogance even momentarily. His wit and his quips were all that he had in the way of a weapon, and he wanted dearly to strike out at Schmidt with it.

“People won’t stop fighting. Freedom means something, especially when you bring the war to them,” he growled out. “What you did only brought them motivation to fight personally.”

“Colonel Phillips is dead.”

“And you will be too soon enough,” he shot back. He and the Colonel had not seen eye-to-eye on many issues, but he knew that the loss of that soldier would be a blow.

Johann chuckled darkly, and he had never more wanted to punch the man in the face. “Your blood has created excellent super-soldiers, Captain. They are beyond my expectations and finally I have a superior breed of man. The world is mine.”

Steve spit a gob of saliva at Schmidt and was as surprised by its accuracy as both the doctor who was standing in rapt attention at the twisting lever and Johann himself. He had not meant to allow his temper to snap, but the shocked looks were worth it. A small victory but he would take what he could get at this point.

The lithe doctor backhanding him was not unexpected. It sent a world-tilting vertigo through him as his head snapped to the side, and his chains shook as he tried to catch himself from the sensation that he was going to fall over. He could not, and he inhaled sharply as he jerked in the restraints.

He was dazed for so long, it might have been shameful. He thankfully came back fast enough for the tail end of the annoying HYDRA salute from the doctor and Schmidt turning to leave. As painful as it was, this was an opportunity.

“Wait,” he called, breathing hard. The Red Skull paused to look at him. “What about my unit? Where are they?”

It looked as if Christmas had come early for Schmidt, who seemed not to be about to pass up an opportunity like this. Spittle aside, getting a rise out of him was clearly the play, and as much as he didn’t want to hear this, he needed to know where the others stood, if any of them were alive.

“Dead or rotting.” Schmidt stalked closer yet this time remained out of his potential spitting distance.

Steve gritted his teeth. Fine, they would play this game. “Dugan.”

“Imprisoned,” Johann said simply. “Though, he had a tearful moment I am told after cleaning out the latrine.”

“Dernier.”

“Dead. Explosion ironically.” The tone implied it was not an accident.

“Jones,” Steve hissed out.

“Imprisoned.” There was a beat. “His uses are limited, but his endurance is admirable.”

“Falsworth.”

“Imprisoned. He is one of Madame Hydra’s favourites, which is never a good time I am told,” Schmidt replied as if speaking on such a mundane topic as the weather.

Steve felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth to prevent him from saying Bucky’s name. He knew that the war played across his face, and he also knew that the Red Skull was enjoying every single moment of it. He had to question if he wanted to know, and between one heart beat and the next, he knew that he needed that information.

“I want us to be alone for this,” he muttered.

With a flick of the wrist, the HYDRA doctor was banished from the room. There wasn’t a single protest, just a backward glance, and he was alone with Schmidt for the first time that he could recall.

Above, the Hydra shifted, a tentacle making an appearance along one of the chains. Schmidt glanced up but neither dismissed or acknowledged the creature. From what little he could recall, the Skull had neither liking nor malice towards the Hydra, simply used the resources that were part of war and the Hydra creature fit into category.

Steve gathered himself, straightened in his restraints and mustered his best glare. “Barnes.”

“Zola’s favourite,” Schmidt replied with relish. “Your friend has survived considerable trauma, and I am told he will soon be considered whole again. When he pledges allegiance to HYDRA, I will deploy him.”

Cold crept up his spine. “Bucky would never do that.”

“Oh Captain, you make it sound like he has a choice,” Johann said with a cold laugh. “He only believes he does, and that’s the important distinction.”

Steve clenched his fists but otherwise offered no resistance. He needed to keep his head on straight, but it was difficult when he knew that Bucky especially was in a place where he couldn’t help. Right now, bucking and thrashing in his restraints would earn him nothing more than Schmidt’s satisfaction and already the Skull had enough of that. He focused on the idea of escape, on preserving himself long enough to break out.

“Peggy,” he growled.

“Who?”

“Margaret Carter. Agent Carter.”

Schmidt huffed a laugh. “Imprisoned, I suppose. When she gives birth to my son, I have yet to decide how deep a hole to throw her in.”

Steve could read between the lines, and he knew that Peggy was still giving Hell in her own way. As much as it pained him to dredge up details of her situation, he was pleased that she was allowed a freedom that the others were not for as long as she was pregnant. He had no idea how much time had passed since he had first been told the news that Schmidt had raped her as many times it as took for her to fall pregnant. Time was a hazy limbo for him.

“You could keep her,” he said innocently enough.

“And find a way to twist my son? No, Captain, I am wiser than that. She can nurse for a little while and then off with her.” It was so flippant, like tossing out the trash. Steve wanted to punch the Skull in the limited nose the man had.

However, that still gave him time to work, if he could somehow avoid the venipunctures. He needed everything that he could muster to break out. He couldn’t find that much in the way of clear thoughts, but he determinedly worked all the same.

What were the chances the Hydra would let him walk out of the room? Every chance he had to fight, the Hydra had held him. Every actual break out, it had been there with strong tentacles holding him down. It was his constant companion in some capacity, but never had he been given the impression that he was in control of any of their encounters. He needed to change that before he could even consider taking on a lab full of technicians and doctors.

“You do not wish to know of your last ally, Captain?”

Jarred from his thoughts, it took his wayward tired mind to grapple with the implications. It came to him with a start, and he hesitated. “…is that what he is?”

“You tell me,” the Red Skull uttered.

Steve took in a deep breath and held it. Finally, he said, “Rumlow.”

“Imprisoned,” the Skull said. “He and the Tesseract together have allowed him to transport troops around the world so effectively that it fell in far less time than predicted. You’ll be pleased to know he exists only to serve now. It was always his purpose.”

Conflict drew his eyebrows together because on one hand, he and Rumlow had shared something that he had only managed with Peggy before. On the other hand, his Corporal had betrayed them all and left them in this situation in the first place. He wondered how much of Rumlow’s actions had been mastermind by Schmidt.

There was no time to consider it as the team of four for the almost ritualistic blood drawing gathered at his door. They waited respectfully, but they were clearly on a schedule.

Schmidt seemed to respect that as well. “Consider your morning newspaper read, Captain. It’s time for you to serve.”

He shivered and bit back a cuss to hurl at the Skull as the leader of HYDRA offered him one last salute and left him. He flexed his arms in the restrains, feeling the metal strain as the team of four assembled and one began to lower his table so that he was laying down again. They said not a word to him as they set about their tasks, and beyond their bowed heads, he spied the Hydra peering down from the shadows.

Help me, he mouthed. The Hydra did not move.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has taken the time to read this, and any comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. Sometimes reading your comments inspire me out of a rut, and that is wonderful to get me by.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yet another chapter of personal torturing all the characters that we know and love. because why not? No, the reason is there and this is the second of three chapters of set up. A warning that this chapter delves more into psychological and physical abuse to both males and females. Schmidt, as usual, is an awful human being, and we will all be glad when they are all rid of him.
> 
> Life is picking up again as I'm making some changes, so please be patient when its to the sheer randomness of my update times. Also, as usual, this is completely unbeta-read so the mistakes are my own.

*****  
HYDRA Headquarters – Austrian Alps – March 1945

Beneath Zola’s personal laboratory and research section, the ‘kennels’ were located. They were cells created to be temporary, given a liberal six feet long and three feet wide with a drain hole in the floor to wash water used for cleaning and other bodily fluids down. Open to the air and no hint of privacy allowed, the specimens kept down in the kennels were a miserable lot. They were the curious, the interesting, the failures and the momentary successes.

Their number had been overwhelmingly strong during the fall of the world, two to a kennel and always uncomfortable. As the hostile takeover of the world escalated, Zola had been seeking ever more daring methods for improvement on their physical prowess, the vulnerability of their minds, and the enhancement of potential power locked in their very genetics.

One-by-one, experimental subjects disappeared. After a few months, only the specimens that were coined the ‘favourites’ remained, a select skilled powerful group of fifteen. They were by no means functional or deployable into combat.

James “Monty” Falsworth had no concept of time in the way of days passing, but he understood that many days, weeks and possibly months had passed since he had been thrown into this cage. He was alone now, his cellmate having disappeared a little while previous and never having returned. It made the tiny ‘room’ bearable; it was practically prime real estate at this point given its position to be able to watch one of two doors in this cramped room.

For his part, it allowed him to identify Madame Hydra’s select minions before they had reached his kennel with the intention of bringing him out. As far as he could tell, he was the last of her personal interests, left over from the experimentation process in Germany. He was still here because his apparent process have been slow but steady, unlike Dugan who had failed to show signs of advancing and was abandoned to the regular dungeons as enemies or potential uses from Schmidt.

He also made certain to keep himself useful and slow progression for a completely different purpose. He had, after all, had all the time in the world between torture sessions to practice, understand and be disgusted with his unique changes. They were simple: he could change the elasticity of his skin. By tightening his pores and flexing his muscles, he could harden his skin to an almost completely impermeable layer, hard enough to limit the damage of bullets, knives. It was his personal armour in a sense, and it gave a whole new meaning to stiff upper lip.

If he focused hard, he could harden his finger and toe nails, but there was often little reason to do so. He wasn’t nourished enough to be able to grow his nails out. His hair was a greasy brittle mess, and he was certain that he had at least one loose tooth in his mouth.

Despite all that, Monty Falsworth was determined to stay exactly where he was and HYDRA was unaware or uncaring to move him. Besides Madame Hydra’s interest, he was generally left alone to listen to the moans, tears, and pleading of other men in this area. There were no women here, but he had heard whispers of a cell block like this one that housed the opposite sex. Madame’s personal pet project or some nonsense like that.

He perked as the cell block door open and two massive orderlies dragged a body between them. He stayed exactly where he was with his knees drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped protectively around them. He was certain never to show too much interest for fear that it would be reported to Zola.

The body that was dragged in like some sack of potatoes was limp, lank dark hair covering a face he knew would be covered with a sheen of sweat. The left arm was missing, forcing the orderlies to haul by shoulders and legs, and he could see from the far distance he sat at that the extent of ‘improvements’ had been covered with a new crisp set of bandages that wound around the other man’s chest. Pale like a corpse, the other man was unmoving as the orderlies carefully settled the nude body down on the floor.

Only a faint trembling gave reason for him to believe that James Buchanan Barnes was even alive. So quiet and so pale was the other Commando that even the larger of the two orderlies had to reach down in order to check for a pulse before nodding and stepping out of the confines of the narrow kennel.

Monty remained where he was seated, watching balefully as the walk-through check of the other specimens was performed. He didn’t dare risking a movement until their quiet German discussion was over and the reinforced steel door slid shut on well oiled hinges. The multiple locks were engaged with soft sounds of cha-chunk or ticka-ticka-tick of a dial.

Still he waited, and let it be known that the patience of the British had not fallen out of habit even while in captivity. His eye flicked anxiously to James Barnes on the floor, the other Commando having failed to even move yet, which was uncommon. The American Sergeant was a fighter the entire way, but today, James failed to do more than tremble upon the floor, hair covering those young pinched features.

Once he was certain that the guards or orderlies would not be likely to return, he uncurled from his position and crawled his way to the middle of the cell where Barnes was laying in a boneless heap. Slowly, he reached between the bars and carefully moved some of James’ hair. It was long enough to at least cover the younger man’s eyes, which he found to be closed.

Barnes was in pain. The pinched quality of the other Commando’s expression was clear enough to tell him that. As he suspected, James was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, which only emphasized the brief bouts of trembling.

“James, ol’ boy,” he called softly. “Come on, Yankee, open your eyes.”

There was no response, not even a low groan.

Monty found his eyes scanning the crisp bandages that spanned the other man’s chest, covering where half a stump of arm used to be. That had been a few days ago as far as he could tell and then James had disappeared for two days before returning with no stump and bandages. He couldn’t decide if the state right now was due to drugs or some other more concerning effects.

He dared not poke or jostle Barnes, having almost lost a hand the last time that he had made the attempt to rouse his companion by force. Instead, he chose the tactic of comfort, offering what little he could in this version of Hell for them. He ran his fingers through Barnes’ hair, keeping an eye on the door as a ‘just in case’.

“Bloody hell, how do you keep your hair so soft?” He kept up a soft litany of commentary, discussing the other prisoners of this section. “Ol’ six-tees was singing last night; very pleasant singing voice. Lefty was taken this morning and hasn’t come back yet. Stonewall made bloody load of noise last night; I think they might have finally broken him. Queens hasn’t said a word to anyone in… well, awhile now. Can’t say much about Freshie yet.”

There was a twitch under his hand as his fingers carded through Barnes’ locks. He gently dragged his dirty fingernails over the unconscious Commando’s scalp.

“Come on, boy-o,” he whispered, giving the gentlest of tugs on the strands passing through his fingers.

James suddenly gave a gasp, a jerk and then sat up, eyes wide and searching. The other Commando’s pupils were blown so that there was only a slim ring of blue at the periphery edge. Barnes’ mouth open but no sound emerged.

Monty carefully and slowly withdrew his hand back to his side of the bars that they shared as a wall. “James ol’ boy?”

“S-Stevie…?”

“No, though I dare say we share the same hair colour, but he is devilishly handsome where I happen to be a dapper gentleman,” he replied, keeping his voice low and soothing. Just talking, just keep on talking and that would normally rock James enough back to their reality. “We don’t know where Steve is, Barnes.”

“James Barnes,” the other Commando said suddenly and loudly.

“Yes, that’s your name,” Monty replied, glancing to the door in case the guards needed to perform another rounds after the orderlies. “James Buchanan Barnes. You remember that, don’t you boy-o?”

There was a near violent tremble that traveled the length of Barnes, and he could tell the moment that the younger man realized that one arm was completely missing. There was a jerk, a panicked glance and then James was twisting around on the floor as if expecting to find a bloody stump. This was not the first time such a reaction had come to pass.

Monty made soothing noises, and he consciously began to harden his skin from shoulder to the tips of his fingers on his right hand. He carefully reached it back through the bars, wincing at the rising whines of panic. “James,” he called. “James, you should listen to me. You lost your arm in combat, and it’s been many weeks. This is a momentary memory short-circuit, but you’re safe.”

“I want Steve,” James whispered, breathing coming out raggedly. “Where’s Steve?”

“I don’t know, boy-o, but I’m here,” Monty murmured, managing to get his hardened hand on Barnes’ back, giving quick and soothing rubs. “Come closer to the bars here, James. We can talk.”

“Where am I?”

Monty felt a surge of frustration with HYDRA. These lapses in memory were a constant aspect of their conversations now, and it made him wonder what was really going on behind those closed doors which had nothing to do with robotics. However, he couldn’t allow that frustration to show. He found that James was highly sensitive and malleable to suggestion and moods of others.

“We’re in the kennels under Zola’s lab. We’ve been here for a long while,” he instead replied as patiently as he could.

“Zola,” James replied softly, brows knitting in confusion. “He’s going to make me whole. He said…”

“You don’t listen to anything Zola has to say,” Monty snapped, not feeling guilty about making James flinch at the vehemence in his voice. “Zola is using you for his own ends. He’s making you a tool, an object of his amusement and gross experimentation. He had nothing but lies for you. Do you understand?”

James looked at him, blinking slowly before actually taking a moment to look around the room, clearly categorizing the state of the cells. Slowly, the other Commando half-crawled, half-dragged himself over to where he was waiting, hand curling around to draw James against the bars next to him.

“Where’s Rumlow?”

James “Monty” Falsworth froze at the question. That was completely new. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly, keeping the bitterness of betrayal out of his voice. “He could be working for Schmidt. He could be dead; there’s been no word.”

“He spoke to me,” Barnes said softly. “Today.”

“You saw him?”

“No, I heard his voice,” James clarified. “It was like… a whisper on the wind.”

Was this a sign of hallucination? Was it whatever drugs that they pumped into James to complete whatever procedures of the day that they were doing? Anger warred with curiosity; they received so little word down here except for the bits and pieces that their guards or orderlies happened to say in their range. He didn’t particularly want to believe, but it seemed detrimental not to humour Barnes at this point as well.

So, he would bite as much as it went against his grain to do so. “What did Rumlow tell you?”

James looked off at a distant point that he couldn’t see, lost for a moment. “War is coming.” He snorted and held his tongue. “The key to freedom lies with Schmidt. A new hope will be born in three weeks. The white flag has been passed. By one death at a time, we grow in strength.”

Monty reached up and rubbed his thumb along the bridge of his nose. Riddles were one thing, but none of this made any sense aside from the Schmidt part. Even then, the Red Skull had no intention of letting them go in anything but a shallow grave. This seemed more like a random jumble of flights of fancy than actual conversations that anyone would have together.

“I hate to break it to you, James, but we’re already at war,” he decided was the safest track.

“I’m aware,” came the reply. “Where’s Steve?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated again, keeping impatience out of his voice. Conversation was still conversation and human contact was better than nothing.

James suddenly looked at him, a flicker of clarity to those blue eyes. “He’s below us five floors under lock and key.”

Monty blinked. “Did one of the orderlies discuss that?”

“It just came to me now,” Barnes replied then sighed, losing energy rapidly. “My shoulder hurts.”

He glanced at the swath of bandages that covered where James’ arm had once been, but it was a lump of thick padding now. He allowed the hardness to leave his skin and patted the other Commando on the right shoulder. “Let’s turn around, alright?”

James offered no protest and was strong enough to turn, both of them backing up to the far end of their tiny cages so their backs settled on the cold bars. They could both watch the door this way, but more importantly, they settled shoulder to shoulder against the bars, sharing companionship, body heat, and direct contact. Sometimes he thought it was the only blessing that kept them sane through all of this.

Slowly, he passed his hand through the bars and took James’ hand, a connection that under any other circumstances would be frowned upon. Here and now, it was a silent connection that they both needed, even as they put their heads together and were able to rest. It was doubtful anyone would come for either of them today, what with Madame Hydra apparently occupied with something or another.

Beside him, Barnes dozed fitfully, clinging to his hand like it was a lifeline. He had to harden his skin against the increasing pressure but was unwilling to rouse his companion who was in desperate need of uninterrupted sleep. It was the least he could do as he allowed himself a few moments here and there of eyes closed and then watched the orderlies and guards on their various rounds.

He said nothing when silent Freshie was dragged out of the cage, and they nary exchanged so much of a glance at each other. Self-preservation dictated that they were limited on what they could do for each other, and he had James to consider over anyone else. If he had opportunity and time, he certainly would free his fellow prisoners, but if it came down to being between them and James, he had already made the choice.

It was a sad reality, but he wasn’t going to waste time agonizing about it. Once they were free and healthy, they would be more utilized in rescue efforts. Until then, there was a certain sense of every man for himself.

Hours passed quietly. James made soft cries and twitched next to him. He could do little more than hum lullabies from his childhood in a lame attempt to soothe.

“NO,” Barnes suddenly roared, thrashing away despite clinging to his hand still.

Monty was taken by surprise when James looked at him, and it was like looking in the face of a man already dead. It was as if he could see right into the empty void of James’ thoughts, as if the man who he had known and fought beside had been carved out and replied with something cold, malleable, and deadly. For the span of a moment, he even considered the possibility that Barnes was going to attack him through the bars.

“Who am I,” came the softly hissed words.

Quick wits were the only trait he took pride in when it came to this place. “You’re James Buchanan Barnes, United States one-hundred and first division of the army. You’re best friends with Steve Rogers.”

Nothing seemed to click except a childish voice that asked, “Steve?”

“Your best friend,” he repeated, slowly pulling his hand back on his side of the bars. “He’s here in this facility, five floors down.”

“I want to see him. No, I need to see him,” James pleaded, pressing up against the bars.

“You can’t, not right now, boy-o. You need to wake up,” Monty said as calmly as he could even if alarm showed on his tired thinning face. “James, look at me.”

Barnes did, but there was a small well of tears and then the other Commando was rising from being seated next to him. Instead of moving away, James leaned in to a higher set of bars that were slightly warped, shoving and wedging in against the metal. To both his horror and his fascination, he could see the efforts warping the bars further, and he risked a glance at the door.

“Help me,” James demanded softly.

Monty rose from his own spot on the floor and looked at the now wedged Sergeant and pressed his hands against the bars. He hardened the skin along his palms and fingers and together with combined effort, the bars issued a high-pitched screech as they were forced open further. Little-by-little, James wedged deeper into the gap.

Suddenly, the door to the kennels slammed out and two orderlies stared at them, drinking in the scene that they were creating. _”Back in your cells!”_

By now, James was halfway to squirming through the bars into his cell, the bandages forced down enough that he could see a shiny chrome strip of metal. It was an impossible situation, and they certainly had nowhere to go and nothing to gain from persisting in cramming James from one cell into his. They would probably be punished.

However, there was desperation to Barnes’ wild shoving forward that Monty found infectious. Bare feet pressed into the floor, James wiggled, squirmed and shoved forward, well and truly stuck. The bars issued more shrieking as they were forced apart under the shocking strength that the other Commando was displaying.

“Monty, don’t let them take me,” James bellowed as orderlies entered the cell. “Don’t let it happen!”

He reached out and curled one arm under James’ right arm and the other around the girth of Barnes’ back, pulling as he dug his heels into the floor on his side. He gritted his teeth, glancing to the door as a guard and an orderly came to his side, and his only response to their presence was to harden his skin across most of his body.

James kicked and thrashed out of the hands of the orderlies on the other side and there were shouts that they tuned out. Neither of them cared enough about German or the heavily accented English that was directed at them both. He pulled, James pushed and the bars screamed as they gave way enough that it became less of a fight against the metal and more against the hands of the orderlies that were trying to keep them apart.

Around them, the cell block went crazy with hooting, hollering and specimens banging their fists and feet on the bars to create an even larger racket. There was then the crack of a baton against his bare back, but it sounded far worse than the impact actually was given that it reverberated up and down his flesh without much in the way of damage.

James heaved and swore, clinging to him as he dragged the other Commando through to his side. It was almost sudden that the two of them were occupying the same space. They fell to the small space of floor together, hitting the bars on the opposite wall with a loud clang.

_”Get Doctor Zola!”_

_”Separate them! Separate them!”_

_”Scheiße!”_

Monty began to roll up and froze as he found himself staring down at the modifications to James’ shoulder, the bandages too tattered, torn and loosened to hide the metal ring of interfacing that capped off where an arm should be. There was fused metal right into James’ flesh, red and angry raised burn wounds all around the shiny chrome metal. There was a metal hole where something large would obviously attach, and he lifted a hand to stroke the metal. It was so smooth, so cool to touch.

“James…”

His head was snapped forward as a baton cracked down upon it from the guard that had come up behind him. Again, his skin was hard enough that he suffered limited damage, but he was momentarily stunned by both the blow and the socket that stared him in the face.

“Monty, don’t let them take me anymore. I don’t know how much more I can take,” James whispered at him.

Another baton blow landed against his back, but he shrugged it off, only hardening his skin even further in order to ward off future attacks. Instead, he forced James up and backwards, tucking the other Commando into the corner and blocking with his body, his hands fastening on the bars.

The guard with the baton hesitated, clearly aware that he was relatively unaffected by the blows. He might not have the advantage of weapons, but he had no fear in this, his first show of real resistance.

“Come on, you blighter. Come in closer and we’ll see how well you can handle that baton when I can fight back,” he jeered. “Think you can take us both, huh?”

“Kill ‘em, Skin Deep! Kill ‘em all!” Ol’ six-tee’s shouted over the cacophony of excited prisoners.

“Poke out their eyes!” Stonewall crowed.

The guard moved in with the aggressive snarls of the orderlies who were clearly not as willing to engage given the confined area in which they were kept. It was already horribly cramped with three people in the cell, and there was no way that he would allow himself to be dragged through the hole. Instead, the guard swung the baton again, and he snapped out a hand to grab it, but it bounced off of his hardened fingers and out of his grasp.

A bloody shame.

“What is the meaning of all of this noise?”

Everyone froze when Doctor Zola appeared, peering through thick spectacles at the almost comical scene laid out before the Swiss scientist. Prisoners and guard in one small space, orderlies goading on as if they had a right to order and the other specimens carrying on like all of this was a prison break. It was nothing of the sort. He kept himself staunchly between James and the world beyond, but Barnes was in no means docile, the single arm the Commando still owned firmly around his waist so that he couldn’t be pulled away.

They presented a very rare united front, and Zola’s beady little eyes drank in the scene and then a scowl formed on the blond scientist’s child-like features. Zola might not be impressive, but the doctor had grown to be known to have benefitted greatly from the weapon designs that were still ruining the world. That much was common knowledge.

“Everyone, get out of here. You are upsetting my specimens with your gorilla antics,” Zola ordered, waving a hand almost impatiently in the air. When the staff hesitated, he stamped a foot. “Out or become a specimen yourselves!” Orderlies scrambled to comply. “And lock the cell doors again.”

That order was left to the guard who withdrew from their kennel carefully, not willing to turn a back on him. It was a good policy because he was not above brutalizing the man at this point. Their cell door was locked and the original one where Barnes had come from as well, the big man-sized hole an obvious flaw to the integrity of the bars.

Doctor Zola was the only one who stayed and instead padded to stand in front of their now combined cell. “I had been wondering when you would cause me problems. Your docile nature was at war with what I had reports of you and the Commandos performing when on duty.”

Monty said nothing, but he risked glancing back at James who continued to have a death-grip on his waist. They both knew that Zola might not be the most physically imposing person, but the scientist could make their lives very uncomfortable.

“No words for me? I suppose I don’t work on you personally,” Zola remarked, clearly aiming the comments at him. “Shall I call upon Madame Hydra?”

“You’re going to bloody well do whatever you want,” he replied coldly.

“True,” Arnim agreed. “You are nothing more than an interesting side-note in the events of history taking place as we speak. There is little, if anything, that you can contribute to the advances of HYDRA.”

He glared at the Swiss scientist, but it was James who lobbed a question at Zola. “Where’s Rumlow?”

Zola actually issued a soft sound of disgust. “Gathering dust.”

He thought that there might have been some kind of disagreement with the Skull on the subject, and he wouldn’t have thought those existed. Did anyone go against Schmidt and live to see the other side of that argument or even difference of opinion? It was clear that wherever their ex-ally, now betrayer, was it was a position in which Zola considered wasted.

“Where,” James asked again, voice coldly insistent.

“That is no business of yours and even if you had the information, it would be useless to you. He cannot and will not help any of you,” Zola replied, annoyed. “HYDRA’s new world order is solidifying globally, and you here shall either fall in line or be disposed of.”

Monty slowly dropped one arm from gripping the metal bar, though he remained completely in front of Barnes. “Tick-tock, is it?”

“In a sense.” Zola watched them beadily. “How long you are useful falls on you.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll let us out of these cells.”

“To what end?” Zola gave them a watery smile, smug at the edges. “However, if it would suit you both, I would open this door and allow one of you out long enough to step into the adjacent cell.” There was a gesture to their left where the bars were all currently intact.

He glanced back at Barnes who currently seemed intent on remaining with him. There was a squeeze of the arm around his waist. “I think we’ll risk bunking.”

“Suit yourself,” Zola said nonchalantly. “I am curious how long you can resist the kill order we have been working deeper into your brain, Sergeant Barnes.”

Monty couldn’t help but freeze in alarm and behind him, he felt James backing off, pressing harder into the bars behind them. What was this nonsense with a kill order? How did that even work? He shot a look over shoulder and his gaze met that of James’ one. There was nothing lurking in those eyes, no intent to do him harm, and yet he shivered as he recalled that dead expression that he had seen previously where the man that he had known for a year now had been carved out and replaced with something… dangerous.

“I trust you,” he murmured softly.

“Are you sure,” James asked.

“I am. You’re damn good soldier and friend,” Monty said firmly.

“How sweet,” Zola chimed in, drawing their attention from each other. “The process has already been started, and you have no choice but to improve. I will have nothing but the best.”

James shifted out from behind him, settling into a crouch next to him, which forced their shoulders together. “The best normally have two arms.”

Zola’s smile was like that of a shark. “And so you shall. It is almost ready.”

That explained all the metal welded to Barnes and the empty socket with what appeared to be a wide array of wires wrapped carefully together. He had not had an opportunity to do more than marvel at the horrors of such a body modification, but he had learned never to put anything beyond HYDRA at this point. The organization had the moral range of a teaspoon.

He reached out and gripped James’ wrist, offering a little comfort. “I won’t work for you or HYDRA,” James declared.

“Oh, but you already have. You think all of those missions you worked with the Captain were Allies’ missions only? No, we have had spies in many places. You have had part in HYDRA’s success for awhile now,” Zola said triumphantly. “And soon you shall be the new Fist of HYDRA. You shall trump even the crazed blood-thirsty super-soldiers that are in play currently.”

The plan sounded like a bad one, especially considering that he had no place in it. That made him expendable and that was a very dangerous position to be in. It wasn’t that he wanted to have any place in such crazy plans, but he knew that having value increased the likelihood that he would survive long enough to provide an escape plan or at least die trying. He was not interested in going out under Madame Hydra’s knife and grating voice or because he was nothing more than fodder taking up space.

Their unified horror-filled silence and the quiet of the other specimens probably coming to similar conclusions that he was only seemed to satisfy Zola. The Swiss scientist looked around the kennels for a few steps and then seemed content to leave him and Barnes together for the time being. He watched as Zola padded to the door to their kennel area, fish in a lab coat pocket for a large ring of keys and then disappeared again to the laboratory beyond.

“Did you see that,” James asked him softly.

Monty glanced over then studied the door intently. There was nothing that stood out to his eyes. “See what?”

“Zola’s keys,” James prompted. “There was a wide range of them. I doubt they are all for the labs either.”

He considered that for a breath or two. “Are you suggesting we break out of here, snatch Zola’s keys and charge through a facility in which we have no weapons and no lay out to where Schmidt is? Or better, down to no-man’s land where Steve is being held?”

James offered him the first hint of a smile in a very long time. “No, we wait until I have a new arm, and that will be our weapon.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“Take us with you, Skin-Deep.” This was from Old Six-Tees.

“Wait, who holds the highest rank among us,” Monty interjected, smirking at the withering look that Barnes through at him. “I’m a Lieutenant.”

Barnes huffed. “Yeah, but that’s British Lieutenant. Is that even a real rank when compared to actual soldiers?”

“I will see you court marshaled for that comment,” Monty growled back. “Damn twit.”

They all had a good laugh over that, and it was, perhaps, the first time the entire kennel area had been filled with the sound of men who thought that they had a chance at doing one last insane duty. That was what made it even funnier; they had no allies but each other and a crazy simple plan that was going to end up with them all dead before they even hit the main hallway.

That night with the lights out, he rested with his back pressed against Barnes’ one and it was the first night where he had actually felt warm. He still froze when there was a spark of blue on the floor of James’ kennel, recognizing that type of energy anywhere. He said not a word to anyone about it.

He said nothing even when they rose with the lights to find scarred dust that read:

_A spark then a flame then a wildfire._

*****

“Do you not think that I am made aware of every single one of your activities,” Schmidt snarled, throwing the question at him as if they could harm him.

Rumlow, for his part, lounged in his tube, unable to move around much. There was also the issue of what he happened to be _standing_ in, which made him unsympathetic and uncowed to the question. In fact, he had done exactly what he had wanted to knowing that Schmidt would become aware of it eventually. One of his goals was to draw the head of HYDRA down to his wide open prison cell beyond the tube in which he existed.

“The smallest of activities, I know about. You cannot pull any antics over on me,” Schmidt continued ranting. “This continued insistence with that white rag may be amusing to you, but it is a worthless application of your efforts. It is as much as you could possibly hope to accomplish without my orders, but it is futile and annoying.”

He knew what was coming, and he did what he could to prepare himself. The sudden voltage of electricity through his entire tube left him screaming and twitching, and if the smell of his own bodily fluids was bad enough, the smell of it _cooking_ almost caused him to vomit over himself.

He sagged, the chains around his collar and his manacles the only reason that he held himself upright. He coughed and gagged though, opening one glowing blue eye to spy Pierce sitting quietly by the water trough. Observing, judging, planning as was his biological father’s strength.

“The Tesseract’s power is mine to control; you are only the compass to open the direction,” Schmidt snapped, up close to the ‘fish tank’ and staring at him balefully. “You cannot sneeze without my knowing it, Corporal. Why do you fight this honour I have given you? No one else can do what you can.”

Rumlow managed a smirk, rising back to stand under his own power again. The mess of urine and excrement squished under his feet, but he had come to needing to present a front of owning it. “Your super-soldiers are subpar,” he said simply. “They have a higher chance of destroying each other than they do accomplishing their missions.”

“Is that what your issue is,” the Skull asked him, folding glove-clad hands behind the man’s back. “Do you long to join their ranks?

“Why? I’m ten times the soldier they are,” he replied coyly. “I mean, I followed your orders, didn’t I? It’s more than they do.”

Schmidt glared at him and beyond their conversation, the Tesseract sang a warning that only he could hear. Together, they could read the situation better than anyone. “Your obstinate attitude is unnecessary. I understand your efforts to draw me here for this conversation.”

He flared his nostrils, playing his part as he shifted his wrists in the manacles that held him back from punching the glass. “You think too highly of men who have been enhanced. I doubt you can control them, and I know they could never have anything interesting to say. I can, after all, access the timeline.”

“I am not unaware of their abilities, Corporal,” Johann hissed between clenched teeth. “Nor am I unaware of your refusal to answer the question that I have sent to you on more than one occasion.”

He lifted his right arm to expose the open wounds from being lashed so that Schmidt could observe them. “And I feel your displeasure very keenly.”

“But it does not move you,” Schmidt concluded.

“Why would it? There is order in pain, clarity and a sense of purpose,” he hissed back, letting the edge of his temper show.

“What is it you want,” Johann asked as if unaware of the answer. They both knew that was a complete lie, and it irked him that the Red Skull would play this game with him when they knew of one another’s cards, his being as limited as they were. “Let us speak plainly.”

As if they weren’t already.

“I want out,” Rumlow demanded. “I want to participate in missions. I want to be in clothes. I want to talk to people.”

“Denied,” Schmidt said with a wave of a hand. “Your use is exactly where you are, and I don’t trust you out from where I can see you. Your conflict grows, and I will stamp it out if I must.”

It seemed that they would disagree on this point, though he could now admit that his anger towards Schmidt would no doubt drive him to do something completely reckless. Already, he was slowly moving little pieces here and there, miniscule actions that would hopefully have the effect that he was hoping to generate long term. He had given all the clues and all of the nudges that he could where the Tesseract would tattle on him but the actions would seem like little acts of defiance and nothing more.

Schmidt was too busy organizing a complete world take over to see his little parlor tricks as anything more than acts of rebellion. He figured that Johann thought him bored given the slowing of the portals that he was required to open up for the soldiers now. With governments toppling, the pockets of rebellion were more difficult to find pictures for, which lead to the new divisions of super-soldiers leading bands of hunting parties across the world. His workload was less, so he was far more idle than he should be.

Rumlow instead leaned back against the tube that had been his permanent residence for eight months. He physically hadn’t changed despite a lack of exercise, but he understood the value of motion. He had always been active, so this stagnant existence allowed him only to plot against Schmidt and war with the Tesseract.

“However,” Johann said, watching him carefully. “I will provide you company twice a week. If you can handle it and not misbehave, I will increase the number of visitations.”

He tilted his head curiously. “Who?”

“Whomever I deem can keep up with that wit of yours,” Schmidt snapped. “Boredom makes you ugly and childish.”

“Will I be let out for this company?” That was what he really wanted.

“I will look into the feasibility of that, but I make no guarantees,” Johann replied, again waving off the issue as if it were petty of him to bring it up continuously. “Now that I am here though, answer my question.”

Rumlow leaned his head back against the tube glass behind him and remained mute. For one, he just plain didn’t want to tell Schmidt. For two, he knew that the answer would greatly displease the Red Skull and that was very dangerous. For three, this was the one power that he had, withholding such information when it was important to the Schmidt but had no bearing on the war. It limited what Johann could do to him, and they were both aware of it.

Schmidt glared at him, showing pearly white teeth in a snarl and cursed at him. “You are trying my patience and that is very dangerous.”

“You’ll find out in two weeks,” Rumlow replied. “Exercise your patience until then.”

“Hmpt, you may not enjoy my attentions in such a way, Corporal,” Johann said and marched across the massive room to where a set of guards waited, nothing more than pomp and polish. No one would attack Schmidt here. Not yet anyway.

His blue eyes flicked to where Alexander stood and blinked over to his tube. It was both thrilling and irritating that this phantom was his most constant companion. He remained casual as he eyed Pierce.

“You put yourself at risk unnecessarily,” Pierce uttered with a hint of disapproval. “You’re poking the bear, and right now, you have no resources to win that battle.”

Of course he didn’t. That wasn’t the point. “I’m sacrificing a few chess pawns to leave room for my more versatile pieces,” was all he said. “I thought you would appreciate that.”

Pierce hummed thoughtfully, hands pressing into the man’s suit pockets. “He is going to hurt you for withholding this information.”

“It’s better this way for all involved. Besides, I want to see the look on his face,” Rumlow said with an airily little laugh that turned into a fit of coughing from the fumes of burnt human waste. “After all that he’s done, this is the only revenge suiting.”

His father continued to watch the direction where Schmidt had disappeared to. “I do understand where he’s coming from when that burst of anger occurs.”

Rumlow shot the aged phantom a withering look of his own. “No, you don’t. You had every piece on the board that you wanted, and you played each with such a fine control that you’d make a better leader than Schmidt. This was a fool’s errand.”

“And you’ve lost everything,” Pierce pointed out with a cold maliciousness. “No family, no friends, no allies. You are well and truly alone with nothing more than a singing jewel.”

He knew that the words that were tossed at him were of his own design, based on thoughts that he had against himself time and time again. He had plenty of time to think and review all of the actions that he had taken to get this point, regardless of how much of his success before here had been orchestrated. Here in the past where he didn’t belong, he had driven his own destiny, followed his own rules, and worked through the mission that he had been assigned on his own steam. He had no one to blame for all that he had done except himself.

They were his decisions, and he would own them. They were his, and he limited his regrets to how much the other Commandos had come to suffer. He had been determined to build a world order for HYDRA that would serve to protect everyone that deserved to have that umbrella of freedom from the very idea of it. He wanted to show the Commandos that reality, but instead, Schmidt’s megalomania had reduced the few men and women that he had been able to work as a cohesive unit with low. Some had died, most suffered greatly.

This reminder of all that he had given up for the mission was only a sticking point when he allowed it to be, which was not often. Pierce was simply doing so now as a reminder of all that he could have had but turned his back on.

“Even if I have nothing, I’m still effective,” he remarked after a time, staring over at the quiet and inert portal.

“A one man army playing a game of chess against himself,” Pierce murmured. “You know things which you will, eventually, have to share with others. Of course, that’s assuming they will speak with you.”

Alexander leveled him an amused stare, offering a charming wink and then fading from the room like the figment of his imagination that the old man was. What more could he expect from a phantom? There were no pearls of wisdom now that he had gained as much as he had, regardless of how much he had also lost.

Sighing, he closed his eyes and tried to cast himself into the flow of events that were happening all around him.

Schmidt was true to the word of sending him company, and it wasn’t Dugan this time. Dum Dum had become a person who grudgingly tolerated his presence and bore no particular malice to the duty that was assigned to the man. He might even daresay that Dugan had come to appreciate the small bits of conversation that they could have with each other.

However, what walked into his wide and long prison was someone he had avoided thinking too much about. She was a single sore point for him, an unnecessary conquest that served only to reinforced Schmidt’s desire to be perceived bigger and better than Captain Rogers. This conquest was a personal affront to the goals of HYDRA, a spoil of war that was unnecessary when the world was yet unconquered.

Agent Carter moved with all the grace of a beached orca and all the power of a queen. She had been forced to give up form fitted dresses to something with less constriction, but her small feet bore slippers and she had taken care with her hair. She wore not a trace of make-up, and he thought her far more radiant because of it. She seemed to glow with the advanced state of her pregnancy, and she looked upon him trapped in his vinegar and lye smelling tube as if he had no power at all.

Her honour guard moved around the room like flitting rabbits, checking every nook, cranny and corner to be certain that nothing untoward was in the room. He said nothing, letting them get on with it as he leaned forward in his chains and observed her as she in turned watched him. There was no warmth in her gaze; she was here because her honour guard was following Schmidt’s orders. It was clear that she was not going to enjoy this conversation.

It was obvious why she was here. The Red Skull hoped that he would feel enough guilt to let slip the details of the child, and in turn, she would be forced to kiss and tell. It was a last ditch effort to information, which neither he nor Carter had any reason to give up.

When she was given the all clear, her guards pulled back to linger by the doorway in complete formation. She stood at a distance from him, pointedly ignoring the chair that had been set out directly in front of his tube. She was a potent woman and would hold out for as long as she desired to, which meant that he could be well and truly shit out of luck when it came to a companion.

Rumlow continued to watch her. “You look like a bloated cow,” he told her without making minced words about it. No apology, no regrets.

Peggy turned her head to regard him, taking his measure. “You appear to be little more than a waste of time to be in conversation with.”

He smirked, already enjoying this. “But you do have to have a conversation with me.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” she replied sharply, eyes flashing. “What I choose to do is also none of your concern.”

He hummed loud enough for her to hear. “Has Schmidt taken you down to parade passed Rogers yet? I figured he would when you started to show, but he didn’t then. Now that you’re about to pop, I thought he might.”

Peggy smiled, her lips thin enough to cut flesh from bone. “He won’t risk it.”

“Of course not; he’s not a complete idiot,” he agreed as they found the first grounds of agreement.

“Tell me, how does it feel to know you betrayed the world,” she asked coldly.

“As mildly inconvenient as having an itch on my ass that I can’t scratch,” Rumlow drawled, his tube crackling with energy just for show. So Schmidt could hover near the Tesseract inquiring for information. “Why would I regret that decision?”

Agent Carter finally moved closer, seating herself and watching him with her hands folded over the enormous swell of her belly. “You ended up in here, alone, used up and probably trying to plot your way out of it.”

He barked a laugh at her, leaning forward in his chains so that they were forced to bear his weight. He ignored the irritated flesh under the confining metal. “Why do you do what you do, Agent Carter? Why did you stop being a nurse and instead decided to pursue spying in a time when women were relegated to the kitchen or a husband’s arm accessory? Why did you challenge the status quo?”

“Because I want to,” she replied, watching him hawkishly. “Are you going to tell me you did the same?”

“I believe in a HYDRA that sought to make the world a better place,” he said bluntly. “The HYDRA I believe in understands the limitations of political action, that bad people are going to be bad and that their rights somehow magically trump that of the abused. I believe in a HYDRA that knew that human kind couldn’t be trusted and required a benevolent dictator, one that would choose based on who we would become.”

He paused to draw breath, to allow his words time to sink in. “Murderers, thieves, rapists, greedy corporations, tyrannical dictators… where is their justice for the people they hurt? If we could stop them before they could spread their misery, the world would be a better place. If we knew those people got exactly what they deserved, isn’t that a world worth believing in?”

Peggy continued to watch him for a long moment, considering and obviously picking her words carefully. Her expression was both a ruse of disinterest and keen ideals of her own; she always had expressive cunning eyes. “Shouldn’t we believe the best in people as a whole?”

“Do you believe there is a best in Schmidt,” he asked her instead of answering. “Do you believe that with time, effort and resources, he can be reformed to make up for what he has done? Do you believe that I can?”

She shifted in her seat to seek for a comfortable position with the weight of her belly practically resting on her thighs. “His best is not what I would consider good for people, but there is a part of me that recognizes he _is_ trying to make the world a better place. His way is complete madness.”

Rumlow could give her that point. Only just that. “Once he has the world, he will turn more of his attention to beyond it.”

“Is there a beyond it?”

“Yes,” he replied softly. “But we are ill-equipped to deal with it at present.”

Peggy watched him silently for a time, considering the scope of his teasing information. “Schmidt believes his super-soldiers will provide the necessary force for invasions. I have overheard their brutality in taking resistance.”

Rumlow openly sneered. “Then you’ve probably already heard that without an objective, they turn on each other like a pack of rabid dogs.”

“Schmidt has _you_ ,” Peggy said with a sweet voice, aiming the words like a blade at him.

He knew better than to shoot his mouth off on that matter, but his expression momentarily faltered so that she might guess that he was not as loyal as he had once been. It was too far away for the guards to see and the Tesseract wasn’t good at converting expressions into information. “He wants me to open portals for the rest of my life.”

“A far more honest profession than you had previously,” Agent Carter said airily. Her intended blow struck this time. He had, after all, had plenty of time to think on what he had gained and then lost with his own actions.

“Don’t you need to go and chew your cud somewhere?”

“Oh no, I’m here for as long as my guards deem it appropriate. They have my entire day’s itinerary laid out. I was informed that you were looking for company in this lonely existence you’ve been granted. Isn’t this part of your perfect little world of people getting exactly what they deserve?” She smiled at him, and it made clear her dislike for everything that he stood for. Tough old broad.

Rumlow shifted, his one solace being that his tube was currently clean. “In that world I would be dead.”

“Well, I happen to find this more fitting,” Peggy replied, purposefully stroking a hand over the swell of her belly.

“You shouldn’t,” he replied softly. “I don’t suffer nearly enough. After all, I still have power for cheap parlor tricks.”

“Oh?” Her interest was only because she had to.

Rumlow glanced over to the trough water, nodding towards it as his power crackled along the water’s surface until some of it rose into two water globs from the surface. While she watched, the globs of swirling water twisted and turned, forming two people – a man and a woman – and they danced along the surface. Their shapes flowed together and back again, a ripple of colour through the pair making it very clear that it was an illusion of what could have been if the war hadn’t gone as it was now. The first dance, never to come to pass.

He set his mind to the figures as they moved along the water’s surface, aware it would hurt her and annoy Schmidt that he would waste time and energy on it at all. Suddenly, the female of the pair swelled up and melted away, leaving an infant hovering to be taken into the arms of male and then both returned to the water’s surface as if they had never been.

Agent Margaret Carter remained staring over at the trough for far longer than the show required. He left her to this small peace, intent on watching her profile. This was a spoil of war that should have never come to be in his mind; the world was supposed to improve, not get worse with Schmidt at the helm.

Slowly, Peggy swung around in her chair and regarded him quietly but her eyes were all calculation. “I suppose those parlor tricks of yours would be more impressive without those chaffing restraints, hmm?”

“Maybe,” he replied nonchalantly. “My power has developed since being here, so perhaps not. Maybe I’ll regress.”

“Such a shame that would be,” she remarked coldly.

“Wouldn’t it though? I would be reduced to being able to only transport myself or a small group of people.” He regarded her, but some of his attention was on how her guards shifted uneasily around the doorway. They couldn’t possibly hear what they were discussing.

A sudden tittering laugh from the Tesseract across his mind was his only warning before the electricity flared through his bonds and body, jerking him and causing him to accidentally bite his tongue as his jaws clenched as the wave of Schmidt’s disapproval was made known. His body jerked and the electrocution went on long enough that he pissed himself and eventually was sagging in his bonds and trembling by the time that the warning was made clear. The topic was off-limits.

Peggy had risen from her chair and carefully stepped away from it to avoid the possibility of electrocution, but she didn’t even hesitate to step up to his tube once the punishment was over. She rested her hands on the glass, peering at him and ignoring the call and approach of her guards. Her eyes ran over him, and he bowed his head as he trembled, revealing the unique key hole even as he almost buckled. His restraints wouldn’t allow him to collapse, and despite himself and the master plan in his head, he twisted his wrists to avoid revealing the blistering infected burns under the foreign metal.

“It seems your service is required,” Peggy said before allowing herself to be ushered away by her guards.

“It seems that way, doesn’t it?” Rumlow remarked through clenched teeth as the last bristling buzz of electricity ebbed away. He watched as his source of conversation was taken away, and he experienced a moment of desperation when the Tesseract blocked his attempt to see if this was the last time he would see Carter. Jealous!

Rumlow was left alone for days save for the occasional required transport of new weapons to the HYDRA Special Forces currently marauding across the southern United States. Each time he made the attempt to look into his own timeline, it was blocked and the Tesseract seemed to wrap him in power and draw him into the stream of it where he found himself lost and desperate to comprehend the vastness of the river of power.

Even after he had been released, his mind was spread wide and thinly over many subjects, unable to focus on his own thoughts. He could be ordered at least, which pleased Schmidt and allowed him to be more or less left alone to do the duty required of him. If anything, they picked up while he was lucid and mostly unresisting.

During his times when he had all of his capacities, he understood the dangers of this new punishment and the apparent jealous tendencies of the Tesseract. He stopped looking at his own timeline and instead entertained himself with the struggle of everyone else. That was allowed, and he was at least good enough to pick out the little sparks of rebellion, the growing strength of those held in unfavourable conditions.

First a spark then a flame and then a wildfire.

Agent Carter was allowed to return a week later, and the shiner she was sporting made him lift an eyebrow at her as she came and immediately seated herself. She was in no way cowed by the violence, but the look that she threw to him was one of a woman who had spent the last days planning, scheming, calculating risks and advantages. She was also perhaps very aware that her time of being effective was closing quickly.

They watched each other for a long time, he standing in the filth of his own waste, and she sitting uncomfortable with the gravid body that she bore as her own. They said nothing, only watched and waited, calculating the risks of association versus the necessary dangers of doing so.

“How long,” she finally asked as if speaking on the weather.

“A week,” he replied, eyes drifting to her belly. “Kind of burns, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve been told to expect a child with a full head of hair at this rate,” Peggy scoffed. It was true that children rubbing themselves all over the womb with hair happened to come with the irritating sensation of burning.

Rumlow huffed softly. “Figures you would give birth to a hairball.”

That actually earned him a small smile, though it was still very much brittle at the edges. “As long as the child is healthy, that’s what matters most to me. The baby will be, won’t it?”

He raised an eyebrow at the question; he recognized that for all that she disliked asking, the information was one of priority for her. She might loathe the sire, but that baby meant the world to her. His eyes flicked to the enormous swell of her belly, and he nodded his head. “It will be healthy. All ten fingers and toes and yeah… more than a fair share of hair.”

Peggy didn’t ask for the gender, and he didn’t provide the information. For her, it didn’t matter. For him, it was still a bargaining chip he held against Schmidt who considered gender the most important aspect of any child. After all the encounters with his own father and those like him, he had begun to truly dislike the idea that a male child was more important than a female one. He suspected his half-sisters were as ruthless as Pierce after all.

He leaned into his restraints as he watched her stroke her belly as if it might comfort her. As she remained quiet and internalized, he studied her, noting the yellowing of other bruises, other signs of her continued resistance to Schmidt and HYDRA. She had never stopped fighting regardless of her hopeless situation.

“I’m sorry,” Rumlow murmured lamely, feeling intensely awkward of the words that popped out of his mouth. He had meant to be unapologetic to everything, but she was a sore point.

Peggy turned her head to regard him, watching him all the same. She did not accept his apology, not verbally anyway. “When you look at me, what do you see, Rumlow?”

It was not a question that he was expecting, and he understood that she was probably probing at his personal armour looking for an in to hurt him with. And why not? It was as he deserved, which might have been the only reason that he made a conscious decision to be honest with her. He certainly wouldn’t be with anyone else. It helped he knew that in a week, she would be a mother for the first time in her life.

“I see my mother,” he muttered. “She was a bit like you, a nurse at first before she gave it up to pursue something she valued more. In her case, it was motherhood.”

“And?” She was as patient as a spider waiting for an insect to be stuck in the web.

“My stepfather took issue with me and thus with her,” he said simply, not bothering to butter it up. “Over the years, his violence increased with his alcoholism, but my mother tried to protect me from his rages, took the beatings so I wouldn’t have to. She resisted for as long as she had strength to.”

Agent Carter looked sympathetic even if she was still suspicious. He was an excellent liar after all, and he didn’t blame her caution. “He killed her?”

Rumlow shrugged. “No, she killed herself. I resented her for leaving me for a long time, even after my stepfather was beaten to death and I was adopted. I was old enough to remember her waning years.”

“But you don’t blame her anymore,” Peggy stated.

“No, given all this time on my hands, I can see how she protected me where I didn’t as a child. She loved my father a lot, but she never expected him to save her.” He shrugged again, uncomfortable with the vulnerability that not only he was showing her but would be revealing to Schmidt himself who was no doubt eavesdropping. He was of the opinion that Schmidt wouldn’t find any of this interesting enough.

Agent Carter was quiet for a time, weighing the possibility of him lying for sympathy and actually being honest with regards to himself. Part of being a good liar was knowing when the use the truth in such a way that it lead people to a certain conclusion after all. He wasn’t here for sympathy or pity though; he was only answering her question.

He sighed into the silence between them. “When I was sent after you, I disagreed with the decision. Schmidt wanted a trophy, and he had decided it would be you. That… isn’t the HYDRA I believe in. Your value is no better or worse than mine.”

“I know my value,” Peggy replied but her tone was different. It was acknowledging that she never thought herself weaker than a man but also acknowledging his recognition of that fact. “It hasn’t changed since I came to reside here, and it won’t after my child is born.”

Rumlow watched her quietly for a time, trying to determine where she drew so much of her remarkable strength from. “You make the worst spoil of war.”

She regarded him and offered a sharp smile. “One would have to stop undermining their captor’s integrity to be considered a spoil.”

He nodded his head, aware that she would find it within her to fight until the end. “You’re the key. You will be the spark.”

Agent Carter lifted her head from regarding her belly, and her hand stilled. She watched him silently and he could see the moment that the small images he had injected into her dreams formed the picture that he had been hoping she would eventually piece together.

Steve’s resistance. Dugan’s hope. Falsworth’s escape. Jone’s necessity.

Her sacrifice.

“That’s all there is, is it?” Her words were guarded.

“If it goes differently, the result is the same for you,” he said simply, standing under his own power and letting his arms hang at his sides. “I’ve looked at the possibilities, and it all starts with you.”

They were quiet for a time, watching each other. He waited for the electricity to come, aware that Schmidt would not allow any meeting between them occur without observation. It was impossible to pass information between each other without the hazard that Schmidt would puzzle some of it out, the man’s brilliance combining with a paranoia of treachery when it came to him.

“This world deserves better than you,” Peggy said, purposefully cutting. She rose from where she was seated, looking impressive despite her current state. “If Schmidt electrocuted you to death, it would be a debt to this world. It is better off without someone of your temperament and abilities. You have betrayed the world, and many innocent men and women have died because of it. Jim Morita died because of you.”

Rumlow looked away, feeling the sting of her words, letting that sting flow through him even as his power crackled along his skin. What she said was true, but the source of her rant was strategic at best. “You’re right. The world deserves someone like Steve, but his legacy is currently a line of super-soldiers that are rabid.”

“Steve is the key to cleaning up the mess that you enabled and Schmidt caused,” she agreed coldly. “You will rot.”

Yes, he would, but then again, so would everyone else in time. Peggy still stepped forward and slapped her palm against the glass of his enclosure, fire in her eyes, an unbeaten determination still shining through. He raised his hand and pressed his palm to hers, brief as it was before the electricity flowed through his prison, and she was forced to back off or risk electrocution herself.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read my work! Any comments or kudos are extremely helpful to get me motivated to continue, and you all have no idea how much I appreciate you reading through this monster of a fic!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow and steady wins the race? This chapter was completed thanks to watching the new Nolan film, Dunkirk, which I thoroughly enjoyed. It wasn't bloody and gory like most war films, but it was masterful in building emotions. This chapter, of course, is nothing like Dunkirk, and it is the second of three chapters building a revolution of escape.
> 
> The story continues on for as long as my brain can manage. I find it interesting that I have almost half of the next chapter already written as well. We will see if the trend continues.

*****  
HYDRA Headquarters, Austrian Alps – March 1945

A new wave of crippling pain forced all of her exhausted muscles to bear down on the source of her agony. She had to lift her head from the pillow where it had rested and gritted her teeth in a feral grimace as she managed to hold onto a snarl of pain. The flutter of nurses and doctor was annoying, and if she hadn’t been in the middle of a contraction, Peggy would have told them to sod off and stay out of her way.

Their nervousness had nothing to do with her condition as it was, and instead, it had everything to do with Johann Schmidt pacing back and forth near the door to her quarters. His presence annoyed her most of all, but she was in no position to chase him out, not with her legs parted and her lower half plainly exposed for all the room to see. If she could have, she would have closed her eyes and simply thought of England.

Instead, she was left snarling between clenched teeth through the next contraction which came on the heels of the last. There was a near continual burning sensation through her loins, the desperate hard bearing of muscles pushing on the baby. The heat of overworked tissues were known to her, but she was helpless against the age-old necessity of child birth, the way that there was nothing but this. Pain muted most of her thoughts beyond bursts of annoyance at those who stood around or flitted about as if she had no idea what she was doing.

In fact, she didn’t. Peggy had never been pregnant before, and this was her first childbirth. However, she wasn’t a nurse to not understand the principles of the process and concentrated most of her efforts not devoted to not screaming in pain to the tearing of tendons and agony of burning muscles.

“Is there a problem,” the Red Skull demanded coldly.

Peggy hissed a curse at him, covered with the roll of her body through the next strong contraction. Exhausted but still forcing herself to be engaged and plainly refusing to rest, she knew a moment of progress even if it came on the heels of something very, very wrong. Was that… the smell of cooking meat?

“No, Herr Skull. She is in hard labour but making progress,” the doctor muttered, sweat beaded on the man’s brow that gave off a nervous scent.

Perhaps more disconcerting was the audible sizzle of burning flesh along with the metallic tang of blood. It smelled off, like it had been sitting for too long, and she could only suspect that it was emanating from her. It was confirmed with the way that the doctor looked taken aback and Schmidt curled a lip in disgust. For her, it was simply a new burning sensation, a new agony to compound down upon what she was already experiencing.

“If my son dies, I will hold you personally responsible,” Johann snarled, stepping away to resume pacing again.

“Y-yes, Herr Skull.”

Peggy bit her tongue to avoid needling at Schmidt. There were other methods of delivering a child that did not directly require her presence. She knew that Schmidt would not shy away from an emergency caesarian and would perhaps even enjoy the order given their vast dislike for one another. For now, it was better for all involved that the baby be delivered naturally as if to prove the strength of the child.

Her hair clung to her neck and forehead from sweat, and her discomfort had reached the point when the need to scream was almost imperative. Her fingers gripped the sheets as she bore down on the next contraction, giving voice to the stretching, the burning, and the alarming smell of her cooking flesh. Agony mounted, layer on top of layer, blinding her thoughts and forcing her body to react only in age-old instinct.

The doctor patted her leg, perhaps in sympathy and perhaps to draw her from the pain of child birth. “He is crowning now. We are almost there. A few more pushes.”

The nurses were quick to flutter with blankets, warm water and a cloth for washing down the child. They carefully and clearly avoided looking to Johann who had overheard the news and was pacing less.

Yet, the idea that she was near the end of the line was not comforting. The dawning horror of what this child was doing to her, the tang of off-blood along with the usual strain on muscles, tendons and skin meant that she was in a rare state of vulnerability once this was done. Schmidt would want to see the child no doubt, but aside from mothering, there was little reason to keep her close. It was a shame that Schmidt had found and removed the shiv that she had made and hidden in her mattress.

More pain-blinding contractions wiped her thoughts, even if the internal sense of _wrong_ only grew inside of her. There shouldn’t be this much burning, should there? Was the baby not healthy? Those were the only questions that she managed to grip onto between those contractions which rocked her and forced tired muscles to bear down.

It was almost a bigger shock when it was over, when there was a seeming jerk and then the pressure eased even if the smell became even worse.

The doctor looked both disconcerted and shocked but reached for an offered blanket all the same. Something was wrong. Schmidt was stomping over, eyes gleaming but seemed to come up short himself.

Peggy, gathering the last reserves of strength, forced herself up from the pillows to peer at the blood bath that happened to be the sheets between her legs. There was a red squirming baby, curled up on itself but the redness was all natural when compared to the other newborns that she had seen. What was completely _wrong_ was that the baby had tendrils of steam rise from its skin, and there were bits of flesh that looked chard clinging to its skin. The blood was blackened and clotted, but not even that could mask the dark patchwork of hair.

Still attached at the umbilical cord, the doctor swept the baby up after both of their inspections and gave vigorous rubbing all over, not only removing the filth from the child but encouraging breath and cries. They came with a little squawk and then a full lungful of breath which sounded off the high-pitched squalling of an unhappy newborn.

“Hand me my son,” Schmidt demanded.

“A moment please, Herr Schmidt. I must cut the umbilical cord,” the doctor replied a bit more calmly now that a seemingly healthy baby was born. 

She sank back into the pillows, the throb of her damaged flesh making itself known over the pandering of her exhaustion. She had seen herself; she knew that the smell of burnt flesh had come from her. Even without having to hold the baby, she had felt the heat that had radiated off of the creature, like a space heater left on too long. She had been burnt with the passage of her child, no doubt a result of Schmidt’s odd bloodline thanks to the old super-soldier serum.

Closing her eyes, she rested, forcing herself to breath even as one of the nurses came to wipe at her brow with a cool cloth. She resisted the urge to swat that hand away, instead nodding her head in thanks as the coolness off-set the throb and radiating hurt that she now had to cope with.

“What is the meaning of this,” Johann growled dangerously, on the verge of a temper.

“Y-you have a daughter, Herr Schmidt,” the doctor said weakly, the sounds of the baby starting to quiet.

“Impossible,” Schmidt barked angrily.

Peggy cracked her eyes open, sensing how this situation was going to escalate and determined to protect her baby during it. “He’s right,” she said in her most brisk voice as she gestured for a nurse to help her sit up , drawing her legs carefully back so that she could close them. The nurse in question was more than willing to prop pillows behind her. “The Skull doesn’t have a daughter. I do, now hand her over this instance.”

Schmidt’s expression darkened, but she was holding out her hands in demand for the infant despite the danger. “You did this. I demanded a son, and you provide me with a lower quality child than I deserve.”

“Well, in my rather expert opinion on the matter, you deserve no child at all,” Peggy said and practically seized the infant from the doctor so she could lean back into the pillows. She purposefully turned her attention to the now quiet baby who continued to radiate an almost uncomfortable heat against her bosom. Yet, there were tiny red fingers curling and uncurling, perfect little finger nails and a small perfect nose. “You could never claim a daughter and be proud, so she is mine. I will be proud of her.”

Johann seemed to swell with anger, stomping up the side of the bed to glare down at her and immediately hold out a hand as if expecting her to simply offer over the infant. She tightened her arm on the child and glared back, daring him to try to take her. This power struggle was common, one that she knew Schmidt hated; she was nothing like his mother after all.

“My daughter,” Schmidt growled dangerously, holding out the other hand as if two made the demand less childish.

Peggy lifted her chin, stroking fingers over the chubby hot cheek even as she only had wary eyes for the Skull. She defied him for as long as she had been here in this place. “She needs a name,” she said instead, changing the subject entirely. “A good strong name.”

The Red Skull’s hand snapped out faster than she could hope to lean away, catching her cheek and the corner of her jaw, and her head jerked back with the blow. Her grip tightened on the infant, but when Schmidt’s other hand closed on her wrist and ground the bones together, she relinquished the baby to him. Not because she wanted the monster to hold their baby but because she was far more useful to the infant alive.

The doctor and nurses looked on, used to the threat of violence for failure or defiance. Instead, the team made the most of trying to clean up her legs and burnt, blistered nethers and the ruined sheets. Her ears were ringing from the blow, and it was enough to sap her dwindling strength, so she lay and allowed herself to be moved and washed, her eyes followed everyone one of Schmidt’s motions.

He uncovered the infant, examining every inch of the child and even checking the bottom of her tiny wiggling feet. He looked in the baby’s mouth, stroked ears and brushed at the wild dark hair. Perhaps it was as satisfied as the Skull could be, though clearly unhappy about the gender. If there was an overt threat to the baby, he hid it well.

“Sinthea,” Johann finally declared. Cruel eyes flicked to her. “She shall be Sinthea Schmidt. You disagree?”

It was a frustratingly acceptable name. “You’ll hear no protests from me on that.”

“That would be the first time and no doubt the last,” Johann replied coldly, giving a try jiggling the baby as if the calm the little creature. “Your restrictions haven’t lifted.”

“Well, I can hardly claim to be fit enough to run a marathon, now can I?” For all her bluster, she knew that she would be bed-ridden for days if not weeks. There was a part of her that wondered if she would recover at all.

Schmidt stepped away from her, jiggling the baby and earning a soft wail in response. Too rough it seemed. The cruel man actually responded and rocked Sinthea instead, humming a tune. It was far more disconcerting than his usual cold fury and calculation.

Peggy watched the proceedings quietly, ready and willing to jump up regardless of her injuries. Sinthea may had been conceived through anger, fear and violence, but she was still her daughter. She couldn’t blame the child for coming into being and if anything, the quick arrival meant less torment for them both in the long run. She still understood that her own contributions were now over, and she had to play this smart from now on. She could no longer go out of her way to annoy Schmidt.

Her limitations meant that Schmidt may consider ignoring her for awhile. Of course he would always have someone minding her, but she had taken down many HYDRA agents and was prepared to do more. Her conversations with Rumlow had not been too productive, but she had watched and learned how his entire set-up worked. A key, the Tesseract, a map and a willingness to work was all that was necessary.

She knew as well that Rumlow would take no prompting to transport rebellious agents out of the Austrian HYDRA base. In fact, he had hinted that he was setting something up slowly. She personally suspected under some guise of mischievous boredom, but like her, he was a trained spy except for HYDRA and with the benefit of historical knowledge itself.

Peggy also knew he had regrets, and she was perfectly willing to exploit them to set the many prisoners free. She knew that Rumlow would exploit her freedom to move comparatively to the others. In that, they worked together, never trusting but always for the betterment of an attempt at a greater, if futile, good.

She winced as the nurses continued to wash her down, and she offered no complaint as she was rolled to one side in order to remove the soiled sheets and then had them replaced. Her eyes were only for the infant being rocked in the Red Skull’s arms, and she had to wonder what sort of plans he was formulating for Sinthea’s life now. Parenthood certainly didn’t seem like a responsibility that Schmidt would want and yet here he was.

Now she had to consider how she was going to send her daughter with the force that would either die during the break out or succeed and flee. Sinthea would be better off under the watchful gaze of anyone not living in this version of Hell.

Watching Schmidt now, she wondered how hard he would fight to recover that daughter. If she helped in all of this, she knew that her life would be forfeit. It was either escape as well or send Sinthea away. Above all, she needed their daughter away from this place, to be raised away from all this hate and war, if at all possible.

Peggy turned her head as Sinthea put up a thin whining wail, no longer content to be rocked. Exhausted, she instinctive knew what the infant wanted but waited for Schmidt to not be able to handle the situation. Just to enjoy a moment of his failings. 

The doctor and nurses were making a point of busying themselves cleaning up and packing up their equipment. Not a single one of them cast a look towards Schmidt who was trying to figure out the source of Sinthea’s sudden malcontent, and it was clear that he was in no mood to have suggestions offered either. With her sheets changed, her wounds washed and salved with crème, they had no more reason to be present and were clearly intent to remove themselves unless requested to stay longer.

She watched and waited, folding her hands across her now flat belly and chewing the inside of her cheek to give her mind a new source of pain to focus on. Not only would Schmidt want her to suffer, but she personally was not willing to risk medications right now. What if they managed to effect Sinthea?

Johann finally about-faced as if the man were on the parade grounds, and he glared at her as if Sinthea’s cries were all her fault. “What is the meaning of this? She was fine a moment before.”

Peggy gave him a squinted shrewd look. How much did she want to humiliate him in front of his medical staff? Not enough to be killed, she ruefully decided. “I believe she’s hungry. She probably wants to nurse,” she pointed out crisply.

Schmidt looked momentarily offended and then seemed to abruptly decide it wasn’t worth his efforts to contest. Instead, the Skull handed over Sinthea and watched hawkishly as she fussed with her gown neck strings and revealed one of her milk swollen breasts.

Frustratingly, there were a few false starts with Sinthea rooting for a nipple but missing an opportunity to latch on. It required some quick-minded maneuvering to make the process happen, and Peggy couldn’t help the sharp inhale as an eager little mouth closed on her nipple. It was probably similar to dipping her breast into boiling water, but she has no option to shove the infant away.

Sinthea quieted, little fingers opening and closing on her chest as little dark eyes peered up at her. As innocent of a creature as they all were at such an age.

Johann seemed content enough with the results, especially with her discomfort plain. He folded his hands behind his back, glanced at the medical staff and sneered. “Mind her well, and if any harm falls the child, I will take it from inches of flesh from your back.”

Normally she would have dared him to, but she instead shifted her grip on Sinthea and ignored the threat. The tactic may even have been a welcome change for them both. It was no doubt why he issued only a soft ‘hmpt’ and marched out of the room to leave her alone.

Well, as alone as she could be with stationed guards outside of her door and a nurse who would remain to tend to her needs. She didn’t have to speak or listen to their orders after all. They had no ability to take Sinthea away without her express permission.

So for now, she would wait. She would plan. She would do whatever was necessary.

*****  
 **HYDRA Headquarters, Austrian Alps – April 1945**

The wild roars of the newest batch of super-soldiers had long ago stopped being interesting. They would take twenty-four hours to complete the transition, their bodies contorting and changing with the introduction of the serum from the most recent bloodletting of Steve Rogers. It seemed that the serum also broke down in the blood rapidly regardless of the preservatives that they placed in the collection bags, and that meant they had to have their candidates chosen and ready before the process began.

The resultant super soldiers were massive, violent and highly effective when set loose upon an enemy. They, like him, gave no quarter to anyone and would all personally enjoy killing targets and searching out enemy intelligence and secrets. They could be the most effective soldiers in his army. Unfortunately, without orders, they were very willing to turn their skills on anyone, including each other. He had personally had to intervene on a few outbreaks of violence.

Johann Schmidt was in the labs to finalize the latest attempts to stabilize the serum. He might have been far harsher with the group of scientists that were informing him of yet another failure, but the presence of his two week-old daughter in the crook of his arm held his hand. Failure on that matter had become so common place that he was, by now, used to the news. It was nothing worth having to hand Sinthea off to someone. It kept them out of his way at least.

Surveying the labs allowed him to ascertain the successes as well as the failures. The howling screams of the latest super-soldiers was like music to his ears. The hustle and bustle of men and some women at work in the labs all held an air of productivity that he could appreciate. As he walked, he could tell that the latest plans were on schedule, ready for deployment in the United States.

At his left arm, Sinthea shifted and yawned hugely, showing off toothless gums and a pink tongue. The redness of her skin had diminished some, though she always seemed to carry a rosy healthy look about her. She was swaddled in an old crotched blanket that he had ordered up from the village in which he had come to be, reds and pinks mingling together. She wore a little black onesie beneath it, but her head was capped with a blood red bonnet. She might not have been exactly what he had desired by any means, but she was as close to being the apple of his eye as any living creature could.

When he could pry his daughter away from the feeding schedule, he took her with him on his rounds. As Madame Hydra had proven, women could be of use in his order, and he was determined that Sinthea would fall in those similar ranks as well. He expected only success and at present, the only success that he had come to hope for was quiet naps, no spit-ups and a limited amount of fussing.

Of course, Sinthea still emitted a heat that was far beyond normal children. If he took her outside on his observation deck, her very skin seemed to give off steam. In baths, she would squawk and squeal unholy murder if the bath water was a ‘normal’ temperature for babies. The reason for that was one he was passively looking into, but otherwise, she was a good enough daughter. No son, but he perhaps should have expected no less from Captain Rogers’ crush.

Now, the actual reason for his visitations down to his labs came into view as he walked, the sliding doors closed at present. He stopped at the floor-to-ceiling glass to regard the sleeping man inside. Today Captain Rogers wasn’t alone, the multi-facetted hydra keeping a sort of deflated vigil. He had been informed that such an event was not uncommon after taking blood from the disgraced Captain and often it would last a few days. That was the most pathetic guard dog that the world had to offer.

Yet, Johann found his eyes narrowing as he observed the creature. He didn’t personally remember it being so _small_ as if it had lost flesh since he had last seen it. Of course, it could always compress itself down to small sizes, but the number of dark spots were decidedly less. Interesting.

One of the reasons that he had never been able to deploy the hydra on more than reconnaissance missions was the apparent war going on between all the people cooped up inside of it. The creature might have come to a general agreement on orders and followed them, but in combat situations and interacting with other loyal members of HYDRA, it had not seemed to be able to completely merge with the thoughts of those around it. He supposed it helped that most looked upon the hydra with disgust given its lack of ability to communicate outside of Morse code or simple yes or no.

With a lack of purpose, he had put the hydra down with the Captain. It might have been a pathetic guard dog, but it always could ensnare the disgraced super-soldier when it suited him. He had spent many times in the beginning allowed Rogers opportunity to make a break for it, but he always made the hydra available to overpower and drag the blond back to the table. It was necessary to break any illusion of escape and to give the hydra a sense of importance.

Now though, he had to wonder if the internal war was waging enough to be detrimental to that purpose. Perhaps it would be best for one of his lesser scientists to dissect the hydra? It was useless for anything else by his measure.

Johann observed for a moment, waving off the officers that came to check if he needed anything. No, he was intent on gloating today. That would lift his spirits from the news that his super-soldiers had failed to find a nest of resistance in the scraggy brush outside of Adelaide, Australia.

At the crook of his arm, Sinthea gave another yawn and squirmed in her swaddle, but her dark eyes brightened when she focused (as much as such a baby could) on him. A smile tugged at his thin lips, and he lifted her to rest against his shoulder, patting and stroking her small back. Her little legs gave ineffectual kicks even as her head settled on his shoulder. Despite the thickness of his jacket, he could feel her little fingers close on material. Yes, she was as good as he could expect from that wretched woman.

But all of his troubles would be worth it for this moment. It had been ten months in the making, and he would be damned to not enjoy it.

Schmidt moved to step in front of the sliding doors, entering the number code that would activate the mechanism to pull the doors apart to allow him entry. There was a distinct pneumonic hiss that pleased him; the engineers were certainly upgrading the place in their limited spare time. He stepped into the room, eyeing the hydra as it seemed to shrink and then shuffle away to the many chains that hung from the ceiling.

“You may witness this,” he said silkily, about the only invitation that he would offer. Unlike others, he didn’t find the hydra to be displeasing, just useless for the most part.

He approached the table where the Captain lay strapped down, appreciating the pale complexion that had an unhealthy waxy appearance. Erskine’s attempt to recreate success lay quiet, ineffectual and passive, no longer that almost amusing annoying thorn in his side. He had no reason to come down to view this failure often, but today was special. Today was the day when he would allow the Captain to look upon the fanciful bundle that was Sinthea and know that that woman had bore this daughter for him. _His_ superior blood.

He looked to the hydra compressing towards the floor and sneered. “Wake him.”

Perhaps eager to please him, the hydra shuffled its bulk over to the side of the table where the Captain was forced to sleep and began to poke, prod, shake a hand and then practically lay on the man. It was pathetic, but it seemed to work after many passing minutes. The hydra persisted until the Captain grunted softly and exhaled a low and long breath, a faint tremor moving down that once strong body.

Sinthea gurgled gently on his shoulder, grasping at his jacket. She was, no doubt, trying to find purchase enough to put it in her mouth. Stupid child.

The hydra persisted valiantly, only ceasing the shaking when the Captain’s left hand lifted slightly from where it rested. Like an old ritual being played out, the hydra slipped a thick tentacle under that hand, but he was distinctly aware that the creature was also painfully aware of his observations. It began to shuffle its bulk backwards to put more distance between itself and Rogers.

“…h-hey, pal…” Rogers’ sighed out. There were more mumbled slurred words, but they were impossible to make out.

Schmidt decided in that moment that his little blood bank project would require more calories in a day and more water in order to regenerate faster. If the entries were correct, it had been three days and Rogers always seemed to only need that long to rally. The man was still dangerously pale and weak. It wouldn’t do for his super-soldiers to run out of the key ingredient. He would have to change the schedule as there was less of a pressing need for super-soldiers with the world crumbling into disorganized chaos.

The hydra had to shake the disgraced Captain’s hand in order to jar the man enough to open eyes. In that moment, he stepped forward into Rogers’ peripheral vision, and it was slower than usual for the man to notice him.

Of course, once the blond _did_ become aware of him, those lose features hardened and those dull eyes sharpened. They were still glassy enough that he wasn’t entirely certain if Steve was aware of how long had passed since their last little encounter, and the blond certainly didn’t seem to be aware of the tiny creature on his shoulder.

“…daily weather report, is it?”

“Hardly Captain,” he replied airily. As if they were friends, he shifted so that he could seat himself on the edge of the table so that he could easily peer into the other super-soldier’s face, and he ignored the way that the hydra deflated and shuffled under the table. “Though I must say, a little sun might brighten up that pale complexion. Am I using you too hard, Captain America?”

“A little more exercise would be nice,” Steve replied, but it was tired and slow. “Hoping for an hour or two of lights out.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want you uncomfortable, now would we? You are such an honoured guest to this military operation,” Schmidt said, his grin smug and pleased. Yes, this was good.

Rogers was quiet, clearly trying to gather enough wits to say something. This man definitely needed more calories. “Too bad my adoring fans don’t seem to line up for an autograph.”

Johann issued a cold chuckle, letting it bubble up out of him as if the joke had actually been funny. His hand stroked possessively on Sinthea’s back, and he was by now positive that she had drooled on his uniform jacket. Still, he shifted her carefully from his shoulder so that he could support her head and plunked the baby down right on the Captain’s chest; there was no danger to his daughter with him being so close and Rogers restrained.

It took seconds for Steve to focus enough on the tiny being, a further few to understand the implication. The man positively goggled at the baby as Sinthea squirmed and turned her head to peer at the Captain with big brown eyes.

“Today is your lucky day, Captain. She will never be a fan of your work but perhaps of your films as she grows older,” he said, injecting such confidence into his voice. This was his moment, one more feather in his cap as the champion over the specimen of Erskine’s work. “This is my daughter, Sinthea.”

For a long moment, Rogers struggled to focus long enough to take in the scene. Schmidt had hoped the man would break, but he never put too much stock into that. “She has Peggy’s eyes…”

Not the worst first words, but again, he could expect no less from this shadow of a man. “Indeed. She has my strength thankfully.”

“She’s beautiful.”

Schmidt paused at that, looking at his daughter who was bubbling happily. She was touching one of the leather straps that held the Captain down, trying to find a piece to lift. “She is. She grows each day stronger still. As she should.”

Rogers forced blue eyes away from regarding the baby to look at him. “Didn’t you say you were having a son?”

He kept his temper. “I have Sinthea.”

“Oh well… bet you were disappointed,” Steve remarked but the blond was looking at Sinthea and a sad smile tugged at those lips. “Pegs must be proud.”

Johann rolled his eyes, thinking that he should expect no less. He made his disappointment clear on the first day, but he had staunchly forced it down since then. He would not give that woman any room to needle him and that now extended to the Captain. They were both alive because of his good graces and little more than that. But Sinthea… that one would hold part of his legacy.

“If she is lucky, she will recover,” he said with an off-hand flip of tone. He reached out to pick Sinthea up again. “She was heavily damaged with the birth, one of two good things that occurred that day. I doubt she bear other children.”

“What did you do to her?” Was that a trace of accusation? Well, well, perhaps not as weak as he had thought.

“Oh the things I could do to her,” he replied instead. “But I did nothing to her; it was Sinthea’s natural birth that destroyed her. Don’t blame the infant, Captain. She was only doing what nature demanded in order to arrive into the world.” He smiled thinly and then looked to his daughter settling into the crook of his arm again. She was chewing on her fingers, no more aware of the topic of communication. “Your woman is a good source of milk; it would be a waste to get anyone in. She acts out less when she is occupied.”

“If you hurt her…”

“You’ll do what, my good Captain? There is _nothing_ you can do. You live a life teetering on the edge of death, and every day, I get to enjoy that fact,” Johann said coldly, jabbing his fingers into Rogers’ ribs. “Your life is as much in my hands as hers. You are helpless to stand against me. In fact, I very much doubt you can stand at all.”

The blond stared at him, once more clearly trying to formulate a quick response, trying to come up with something worthwhile saying. The facts were clearly in his favour and they both knew it.

“This won’t last. Someone will rise up and overthrow you,” Rogers growled.

“And they will die trying,” he replied as he shifted back to his feet. “As they have all died trying, Captain. The Allied Nations are broken and scattered. Your allies rot quietly to shadows of men. Your woman is on borrowed time. No one is coming to save any of you.”

It irked him when he was forced to look upon Steve’s slow and tired grin. “Good because we’re better when we save ourselves.”

“Oh Captain, I am very much looking forward to the day when I can drain you dry and finally be rid of you permanently,” he said with a shake of his head. “You stopped being amusing months ago. Give up.”

“Never,” the blond said softly. “Giving up means I can’t help myself or anyone else. I can’t do that.”

Schmidt snorted and reached down to vindictively break the Captain’s pinky finger. There was a shouting scream from the man and then low hisses of pain. “No one will be free, least of all you.”

Sinthea issued a soft whimper and kicked with more troubled enthusiasm, and he stepped away to grasp her small feet in his hands and stroke them. He looked to the hydra hidden around the table base and issued a soft ‘hmpt’ to the side of its flesh peaking out. What a pathetic creature.

“Both of you are coming very close to the end of being worthwhile keeping alive,” he said coldly and then walked from the room. There was an assistant who was close enough by to step over and close the doors in his wake, bobbing and avoiding eye contract.

He waved the man over a second later. “Increase the daily caloric intake to our Captain by fifteen percent.”

“Yes, Herr Skull.”

He stopped, ignoring Sinthea’s increasing fussing. “And send word to the Valkyrie production line to increase work output by ten percent.”

“…yes, Herr Skull.”

His daughter began a low wailing that he knew meant she was hungry. He pressed a finger into her mouth to silence her, and she immediately sucked greedily. She actually looked betrayed when nothing actually happened beyond her mouth being filled, and that amused him, made him smile. If only baby’s could truly offer accusing looks…

“Well?” The assistant scurried off to pass his orders down the appropriate communication lines. He would check in once he returned to his rooms and punish the man for failure.

For now, he prowled to Carter’s rooms and dropped off a howling Sinthea for a feeding. She offered him little more than a scathing look and he was content enough with that, even if she both winced from Sinthea’s eager mouth and the nurse carefully trying to change the wretched woman’s bandages.

Johann returned to his study, glancing at the machine that housed the Tesseract as he entered. She didn’t titter at him, but Her energy pulsed once down the insulated conduits. At least something was behaving, he thought as he moved to seat himself at his desk. There was a cold cup of tea and biscuits set next to stack of reports for him to read through. At the very top of those reports was progress on Sinthea, and he immediately picked it up to peruse the information.

Growing, yes. Weight gain, yes. Normal body temperature still two degrees above even high-normal.

Schmidt was pleased with the expected report on the health of his daughter, but that mood couldn’t maintain him when he punched in the code to his locked drawer and immediately noted that something was off. He had many rings of keys in that drawer (far too many to carry with him at any given time), but he had undertaken the highest security measures to keep them safe. It was why he kept the Tesseract here; She was aware of unauthorized intruders.

Slowly he picked up the rings of keys one by one, looking through them carefully. His fingers froze on one in particular, a thick key with a star-shaped head, slowly hefting it. It was different, the material was not as heavy as it should be.

Someone had replaced it. Someone had taken the key to…

Johann shot from his chair and moved to the Tesseract. “Show me,” he demanded. He reached out and turned the locking handle, twisting it so the locking mechanisms slid open and he could pull the Tesseract from hiding. “Show me,” he demanded again.

The Tesseract showed him everyone that had entered his room and all were individuals who had authorization. What She didn’t show him was who had specifically tampered with his desk. It was clear that She couldn’t; She had been focusing considerable energy to one source.

“Rumlow…” he growled and twisted around, his anger radiating off of him. “Bring me everyone who has entered this room since I left,” he shouted at the guards stationed outside of his room.

And just for good measure, he turned on the electricity to Rumlow’s containment and left it on. Some lessons were only learned in pain. Some lessons required a constant stream of it to show a man the error of his ways, especially stubborn regretful men.

*****

Gabriel Jones was no stranger to pain, but it was generally sharp and momentarily frightening. He had grown up knowing rules and dread and meticulous action, and it was those early life lessons that served him best here in the work area. It was right back to being a matter of survival, and he had long grown comfortable with the necessary actions that it required. The rules of engagement were stricter here but still eerily similar to back in the United States.

He had attempted escape only once, and he had been beaten within an inch of his life. At the time, he had come to understand that most of the guards and even Madame Hydra had not expected him to survive. It was no doubt that assumption which had put him in the Madame’s line-up for experimentation.

A brief stint being injected with this and that; he could recall waking and being aware of the burn in his veins and the feeling of his brain too big for his skull. It had been intense and frightening.

He had survived. Barely.

Gabriel had lived to heal most of his injuries, though not all of his fingers could bend completely, and he limped heavily on his left leg which hadn’t healed quite right. It was more a hobble, but he had his life for the time being, and he had decided that it was enough at present. He guarded what amount of health that he had left, keeping a quiet stoicism as he idled his healing time away listening to the conversations of others of foreign nations around him from other cells.

Over the days and weeks, he began to understand them. It didn’t matter if the words they spoke were a type of slang, a different dialect he had never come across before, or even purposeful butchering of words and sentences. Somehow, he had begun to translate it all, little by little. Where his body had been put through the ringer, his mind had begun to cling onto what he _could_ do.

Deep into the nights, he had quietly begun to speak in tongues. With nothing more to occupy his time away, he focused on that simple pleasure; the ability to learn and communicate even if it was with himself. Sometimes it was with the rats that scurried about looking for scraps of food.

Animals were different, most of their communication non-verbal, but rats were lively and social creatures. He found their faces expressive, their intentions both of survival and curiosity. They seemed more curious of him than of the other prisoners who would not miss an opportunity with a quick meal to supplement their paltry diets.

Gabe couldn’t bring himself to do that, not yet anyway. In some ways, rats were entertaining. They certainly weren’t novel, given how many had been in the previous prison camp that he had occupied. They hadn’t nearly been as interesting then, mostly because he wasn’t left enough time or energy to contemplate their existence before now. 

Now, alone in his cramped cell, he found their curious antics worth watching. Their little whiskers were practically vibrating as they moved along barred walls first and then gradually moving away with careful boldness, always watching for signs of danger. He found that they usually moved as singles but at times in pairs. When the Swiss prisoner next to him had died, the rats had not been shy on capitalizing on the bounty that evening and into the night.

He hadn’t the heart nor the stomach to shoo them away. He thought that as long as someone was eating and not wasting the dead, it would not be a frowned upon. Instead, he had found himself watching them, sickened and exhausted but studying their antics. They communicated with one another through body posture and head flicks, but for the most part, they were able to get along. There was too much food to need to actively compete with one another.

When the body had finally been removed the next morning, the rodents had scattered, one of which scurried into his cell. With the softest of squeaks he hadn’t even known he could make, he offered brief sanctuary in the folds of his tattered pants. Wet rat was not pleasant against his skin, but it was no worse than the machinery grease, blood and sweat he normally wore.

Gabriel didn’t question when the creature crawled out once the sounds of cursing guards and dragging corpse had faded away. Instead of heading off after its brethren, the rat – a big black one – crawled up his leg and sat on his knee, watching him between grooming episodes. With nothing else to do, he regarded the creature in return, a brief decline to the dullness of cage life between the long hours of working on the floors above.

He twitched his cheeks and the rat eyed him. The reply was simple: _Caution. Curious._

They learned about each other before the paltry morning meal arrived, a rock-hard bun and watery soup, half of which spilled on the floor. It was probably all he would receive today, so he took it and soaked the bun into the soup in order to soften it.

To his surprise, the large rat remained in his small cell, continuing to groom in the corner. He offered a small portion of his bun in a vague and lame act of friendship. The rat had no qualms of taking it; food was food and not to be wasted. So for the first time in however long – probably weeks – he ate gingerly with a companion.

When he finished his work shift and was shoved back into his cell, Gabe found a small scrap of cloth waiting for him. By rat standards, it was big enough to start a nest. By human standards, it was barely enough to rub his fingers on. It was dirty from being dragged along the floor, but he appreciated the gesture all the same. It was the most anyone or anything had done for him in a very long time.

So it began.

Gabriel Jones, African-American soldier, first in a mixed racial unit, became the King of Rats. It was not a title that he wanted, but it was one that he valued. Rats were underestimated and undervalued. Their relationship became something of a partnership. He provided protection, a safe cell, a warning on the placement of rat traps and poisons and occasionally small bits of food. They provided warmth of their little bodies, scouting and information to a limited degree.

Their communication was limited to danger, obstacles, food, and how to maneuver through the cell block and above to the workshop. They couldn’t give him numbers on guards, but they could warn him when one was coming. They knew when someone in the cells died and when someone new was shoved in. So that information was shared when one was around. His cell began to have almost constant traffic, giving them access to the drain pipe at his feet to scamper through to new areas of the facility.

It was the only satisfying part of his life at this point, dangerous though it was. His work hours pushed him to the limits of his strength, lifting and hauling scraps of metal and parts on a massive set of four engine glider-like planes. He had heard them called the Valkyries, but he kept his head down and avoided as much trouble as possible.

His survival was mostly due to his understanding of the language ordering him with words to take this and that there, to haul away the scraps, to bring a specific tool. He made his fumbling reasonable so that he wasn’t seen as a danger for having too much knowledge, faking passivity through the long hours even as he limped and dragged himself through each day.

He was known as a good slave, a title that left a bitter and angry taste in his mouth. He wanted to cause trouble because of it, but his usefulness was better alive than raging ineffectively.

Maybe that was why he specifically watched and learned more about engineering and mechanics, or as much as his tired mind could absorb. With so little food and far too much work, he found his mind in a fog most times, only the instinctual motor skills of survival driving him on. If he was particularly useful, one of the German mechanics would give him the other half of a wilting apple, but it wasn’t enough to allow him to keep weight on anymore.

“Quarter-inch wrench,” the mechanic demanded of him as he walked by.

Gabe bobbed his head in acknowledgement and stepped away from the wheeled bin of scraps to investigate the work bench of neatly laid out tools. He walked his fingers along them until he found the quarter-inch, waiting for a grunt to acknowledge his choice and then selected it. He handed it over and then carried on pushing the bin over to the garbage. He emptied it with a struggle, the bin heavy with materials that were being sorted by emaciated and tired prisoners of war. Most carried haunted looks, aware that they were at the last of their lives.

He limped his way back the way that he had come, dully hoping for another job to keep him from shoving more bins back and forth.

“You there, get over here,” the same mechanic growled, waving the wrench in the air.

Gabe stepped away from his bin, left as tidy as he could next to the half full one at this station and approached. He was handed the wrench and then immediately returned it to the work bench where he had originally found it. A HYDRA guard wandered passed, eyeing him suspiciously and purposefully stopping to make certain he didn’t try to steal anything.

“One-and-a-half wrench,” the mechanic demanded, either not seeing or not caring there was a guard standing right there. Both of them could be in trouble if the guard so chose.

He made certain to walk the fingers that worked over each tool until the mechanic gestured peevishly, but his fingers had moved on. He drew back and risked picking up the correct wrench, handing it over and making a move towards the bin again.

“No, no, you stay,” the mechanic demanded hotly. It was then the German looked to the guard. “He stays here. I need an assistant, and he is as skilled as any monkey. I’m behind schedule!”

The HYDRA guard glanced between the two of them and then shrugged, moving on. He knew that the guard would be watching closely and he would be searched before he returned to his cell tonight. If anything was missing today, it would be blamed on him, and he would be beaten regardless if they could find the item on him.

“Stay,” the German ordered in English, probably the only word the man knew beyond ‘hello’.

So he did, and he was not complaining. This work was easier on his body but harder on his mind. He had to focus for longer, but he took and handed over tools, shouldered up sheets of metal or held up parts needed for assembling what he could only decide was some part of the engines. They were certainly in the right area of the engines from the plane further in the hanger that they were working in.

During a brief break, he managed to drink some water which had a distinct acrid taste to it. It was still better than nothing at all, so he drank especially to cover the near constant pangs of hunger. The engineer he was working with, impatient to return to work and perhaps seeing he was fading fast, handed over half a sandwich to him. It was bully beef, heavy with salt and probably the best thing that he had tasted in many months. He wanted to savour it but knew better as he ate as quickly as was safely possible even if he made certain to save as much of the crusts as he could convince himself to for his rodent informants.

The next hours passed in a blur of stumbling activity, but he knew how to run as much on autopilot by now than anyone. As he passed over tools, once more helped shoulder heavy machine parts, he kept an eye out for the guards who continued to make rounds on the facility. Their activity increased an hour before shift change, the area when most prisoners would risk trying to sneak something back to their cells.

He kept his head down, made certain that every single tool was placed back in its specific spot, and that all scrap metal was obviously and loudly placed in a bin. Even so, when it was time to break for the few hours they were allotted for sleeping and eating, every single worker was subjected to an inspection. There were mutterings about stamping out any ideas of rebellion, which was laughable. None of them had the energy or heart to rebel.

Or so he thought.

Gabriel was awakened from his exhausted fugue state at the sound of yelling in the hallway, and he normally would keep his head down and let the guards deal with the matter, but they were oddly standing by. His time in the other prison camp indicated that this was a disputed between prisoners and that kind of tension was something that the guards both enjoyed and encouraged to fracture any idea of alliances between the prisoners.

He heard an oddly familiar bellowing, and he almost cringed as he recognized Dugan. He had managed to pass the other Commando only a small handful of times since being made to work in this facility, and as far as he knew, they had never been on the same shift. One of them was always coming while the other was going on the few instances in which their paths had crossed.

Gabe sighed heavily, aware of his loyalties and that was why he shoved and pushed his way through the stalled crowd of exhausted prisoners of war towards the dispute. He passed by a guard or two on his way, but again, they seemed to not care much for two prisoners fighting and that was exactly what was happening when he managed to move forward enough to spy the current shoving match.

He hesitated from engaging, mostly to take stock of the situation and potential allies of the two men. No one seemed particularly interested in getting mixed up in the fight, and Dugan looked worn and haggard but brighter of spirit than he had seen since the world had fallen. For one, Dugan stood tall and abrasive like old times. For two, the other Commando looked like there was something worth fighting for again.

His opponent was a big man, wasted from lack of food but still large by both statue and hard work. The other man spoke in broken English, mostly cuss words that he spat with more than a fair share of spittle. The reason for their dispute was not known, but he suspected it was a simple matter of contact during the shift change. Such things happened often enough to start tempers flaring.

Gathering himself, he pushed to the front of the circle of men and then tackled Dugan’s opponent’s back, his weight half-buckling the man. Dugan let out a loud boom of laugh and charged in, punching the other man square in the jaw and dropping them both backwards. He hadn’t the reflexes or the energy to let go and scramble away, so he went down at the bottom of the pile. Dugan was quicker than expected to join them, throwing punches as the big man howled and grappled on Dugan while he was trapped beneath their exchange.

Gabe hissed as he was jabbed with a blunt shard of metal, and he at first thought that the big man had managed to sneak something from the work area. Instead, he saw Dugan pointedly winking at him, jabbing him with the metal again until he managed to get a hand on it. He managed to slip it up his sleeve before taking an elbow to his ribs and punched their opponent to the side of the head.

Distastefully, he and Dugan used their strength in number to beat on the man until Dugan seemed to call it off by spitting blood from a split lip and stood, sneering. “Get off my friend there, _mate_.”

Gabe managed to struggle out from under the dazed man and climbed to his feet, limping his way over to Dugan and giving the other Commando a shot on the shoulder. “You’re on your own next time. Don’t think I’ll help again.”

Dugan looked at him, perhaps seeing the extent of his scars and perhaps understanding that he had joined against his own better judgment. His fellow commando seemed to deflate. “I know, but it had to be done.”

He huffed and moved to shuffle away now that the line had opportunity to move, but he was pulled to a stop by a hand on his wrist. “Watch for blue.”

He pulled his wrist away and limped away, not bothering to ask for clarification and certainly not looking back as he headed back to his cell. The guards eyed him, noted the blood on his grimey clothing and left him be as he was shoved into his small cell where he settled down and poked at the bruises that he had acquired.

Once the guards had made their next rounds, he pulled the piece of metal from his sleeve to examine it in the limited light. It was an odd metal, cool to touch regardless of the fact that it had been up his sleeve and no doubt hidden somewhere on Dugan before. It was definitely a key, but the end of it was an odd star-like shape and fit to nothing that he had ever seen before. It was big enough to be obvious in a group of keys but small enough to not completely attract attention. He ran his fingers over each end, feeling the loop on the butt and then star-like spikes on the opposite end.

He watched the guards drag back the big man he and Dugan had fought, hiding the key in his sleeve again. Their eyes met below that of the guards, and he recognized the small bob of a head as a sign that the entire fight had been fabricated so that Dugan could slip him this piece of metal. That increased its importance greatly in his mind.

So, when he rodent allies came searching for food, he handed over his crusts to their gluttonous desperate little hands, watching as the four who had come stuffed the bread into their mouths. They were well pleased with the offering, taking the time to groom themselves as clean as possible in his presence and he offered them the key next.

It wasn’t food, so they didn’t want it. Gabe took a chance on pushing the object on them, insisting with facial twitches and soft squeaks of his own that this was more important than food. It had to be protected. The biggest female was convinced to take it to her nest in the wall behind his cell, and while reluctant to let it go, he knew it was safer there.

Clearly it was by and large more important than either of himself or Dugan.

Gabe slept dreamlessly, too exhausted to remember anything. He woke the next morning curled up in his usual tight ball for warmth and found two of his rat allies watching as sentries to his cell, a behaviour that was not entirely like them without some prompting. It was only when he saw a flicker of blue light along their backs that he understood that Rumlow was still alive.

To Hell with that treacherous asshole! To Hell with all the lies that he and everyone else had suffered through only to reach this point!

He turned over, away from the rats and dozed until the guards began their usual grunting role-call and handed out the measly morning meal. He was not even glanced at as he was handed some of his water broth which he had to nurse carefully because of a swollen lip and his pain-twinged ribs. He saved some for the rats all the same, aware that this food would never be enough to fill his belly.

By mid-afternoon, he was hauled from his cell and found it searched from top to bottom. There was no word what they were looking for, even as he was stripped from his moldy clothes and given a rough and thorough inspection. It reminded him far too eerily of his time with Madame Hydra, but he was not beaten save for a rough shove and a bark for him to return to his cell again.

He wasn’t allowed to work that day, which was a blessing as it allowed him to sleep and conserve energy. The guards were on edge, restless and particularly mean today. They passed on more rounds than usual and snarled at both prisoners and each other.

That evening, the body of the big man whom he and Dugan had fought was dragged by, skull caved in and smearing blood and brains on the floor. He kept well away from his cell door but even so, he could hear the muttering of the answer that was the Red Skull. The HYDRA leader was apparently in a far fouler mood than any had seen.

Wary but aware that any movements to draw attention to himself in the here and now was not in his best interests, and he made certain to be curled up and watchful. He didn’t sleep much that night, aware that the guards could come for him at any moment, and he would rather be awake for that than be surprised by being beaten awake.

The guards did not come for more than yet another inspection of his cell and that of his entire cell block. Every single item that could be perceived as contraband was taken and the prisoner in question beaten right there in the hallway. His measly rags were taken from him, an insult that left him in the nude but not complaining. He both knew better and now found it impressed upon him the very idea that that piece of metal was highly sought after.

He wondered if Dugan had been interrogated. Then he had to wonder if the other Commando was even alive anymore. With no information flowing and no contact with familiar faces, he was hard-pressed to prepare himself for what he was supposed to do with the key that he had acquired.

All he knew was that he was even keener to hear anything that the guards or his fellow foreign prisoners had to say in their mutters. From the guards, it was mostly muttering about orders, progress and the continued anger of the Red Skull. From the prisoners, it was ravings of madness, complaints of hunger or sickness and then an undertone of suspicion of a possible rebellion.

Rebellion, huh?

Gabe snorted softly to himself and curled deeper into the corner. Who could possibly pull off a rebellion in these circumstances?

He felt himself grow suddenly warm. Steve could. Steve Rogers was going to break them out. For the first time in many months, Gabriel Jones felt excitement that outweighed his caution.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone that has struck with this as well as those that are new and have slogged through this far. I appreciate all comments and kudos, often finding them inspiring to continue to get a few words down at a time.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the escape chapter. Unfortunately, it's longer than the other chapters in order for me to get everyone sequences in. I briefly pondering turning it into two chapters or subtracting content but ultimately decided against it. So it's just a longer than usual chapter.
> 
> As usual, this fic is not beta-read.

*****  
**HYDRA Headquarters, Austrian Alps – April 1945**

_…a woman was screaming._

_It was a terrible high-pitched wailing that jarred his head, couldn’t allow him to focus on anything of the dream that he had been trying to enjoy before. It went on and on, but the plain landscape was being swept with clouds of blue that shot lightning from cloud-to-cloud. It came with thunder and the low buzzing like an approaching swarm of bees._

_Still the sound of a woman screaming continued. It was incomprehensible what would cause such pain or even how one lungful could continue for so long. He tried to tune it out but had no control over the dream to do so, forcing him to be subjected to the continued wailing._

_Suddenly words blasted him from all sides, the closing of the threatening blue thunderclouds alarming and jarring._

_“Not my baby! Don’t take my baby away!”_

_A woman stood amid the boiling clouds, her dark hair whipping about her face, her mouth opened in both a scream and forming the words that were being yelled out to him. She was beautiful, he thought, olive skin and tall of stature. The clouds partially obscured her, but even he could see that she carried a moving bundle of cloth._

_Despite the confusion of the scene, he felt an overwhelming joy too. A baby! What a wonderful occasion regardless of the screaming of her voice, the crack of thunder and the flash of lightening between the clouds. Slowly, he reached out his hands to take the bundle from her, to offer aide in the only way that he could. His hands shook, more so when the lightning lashed out at him._

_Tears streamed down her face, and she offered him the bundle. It squirmed and an infant’s cry sounded, and his joy soared when its weight seemed to strengthen his arms. He pulled the wrapped creature to his chest, blinking when the woman was struck and dissolved by the lightning. The wind calmed, the blue clouds rolled like a sea but without the previous savagery._

_He reached up and pulled open the cloth to reveal the infant. Only, there was no child, and he instead found himself holding a glowing blue cube. The Tesseract, his helpful brain supplied him._

‘You have yet to earn my approval.’

_He folded up the cloth around the Cosmic Cube, pulling it to his chest and looking the way of the fleeing clouds. He wanted to follow but was rooted in the spot he was standing. He couldn’t move his feet no matter how much he applied himself to the task and almost all the clouds had run off. He knew he needed to follow them but still was unable to._

__

__

_He tried and tried and tried, never releasing his hold on the bundle in his arms. He pulled it closer to his chest and persisted. When still nothing could be done to actually move, he lowered his head and whispered to the bundle, ‘help me.’_

‘Just once.’

_Suddenly he could move as if the very air around him had yielded from holding him still. Not only could he move, but he realized in the next second that he could wake up._

Steve found his eyes snapping open, staring up at a familiar ceiling in a familiar room with all the familiar sounds, smells and tastes creeping along his senses. For once, he didn’t immediately feel the urge to fall right back asleep, to preserve the little strength he was allowed to maintain. He blinked his eyes rapidly and then found his head turning to regard a young woman standing at the side of his prison, the table in which he had spent the last months strapped to.

He didn’t know her, hadn’t seen her for any of the bloodletting that was by now routine. Her dark hair was curled and pinned to her head, her uniform plainly obvious as that of a nurse for HYDRA based on the glaring symbol attached at her shirt collar. She wore a plain beige sweater and she carried a chart with many papers on it, tucked it close to her breast ad half of it covered in the fold of her sweater. Her dark eyes stared down at him with a determined resignation, plain lips twisting and frowning with conflict.

Above, the chains hanging from the ceiling shifted but the hydra did not come down. He knew it was observing quietly, keeping small and obfuscated.

The young woman fished in her pockets and pulled out a small bag, opening it and then taking out a lump of brown sugar. She offered it to him, pressed it to his lips until he took it into his mouth and began to suck on it. The sugar had been affected by moisture, but it tasted heavenly; Steve couldn’t recall the last time he had been awake enough to enjoy any type of food.

As he sucked on sugar, she checked his vitals, scribbling on her chart. Behind her through the window, a technician paused to observe before continuing on as if nothing were amiss. All was in order.

Steve watched her as she set her chart upon his chest, her dark eyes filling with tears as she reached down and began to work the levers to release the restraints across his chest, his legs, his ankles and wrists. There was a quiet slide and grind of the heavy webbing fabric and the gentle clink of metal as she worked, and even with the stream of tears, she worked with a determination that caused him to glance towards the ceiling to ascertain if the hydra was about to chase her off.

The hydra emerged slowly, creeping to the edge of its hovel and then reached out with long tentacles to grasp the chains. It moved quietly but also methodically, moving its bulk in a way that suggested that it was hunting, moving in for the kill. It slid down the chains, keeping them steady with other tentacles so that they didn’t sway or contact one another. Soundless, the hydra eased to the floor and approached.

“…stop…”

“Quiet,” the nurse said, her voice heavy with emotion. She had almost freed him.

“The hydra is…” Steve started.

“Edwin wouldn’t hurt me,” she replied tersely. It was only then that she looked up and regarded the hydra, which froze at the sound of the name. “I know you’re in there, that your research was thrown away, that you live this life now.” She drew herself up to her full height, jerking the remaining strap and letting it fall to the floor. “I’ve done my part, Edwin. It’s time you did yours.”

Slowly, Steve sat up, the intense rush of lightheadedness assaulting him. The clipboard was picked up from his waist where it had fallen, but this novelty was one he couldn’t ignore: freedom. His hands shook and his feet felt as if pins and needles were assaulting up to his calves. He still set his hands to the table in which he lay and slid from its surface to take his feet for the first time in over three months. He nearly collapsed, but he was watching the hydra – his only friend in these dark times – observe him. When would it strike…

“Come on, pal, you and I need to get out of here,” Steve said carefully. He looked over at the nurse who was offering him another lump of sugar. He took it, popping it into his mouth and finding strength from the rapid rush of energy. “Why are you doing this?”

The nurse whose name he didn’t even know reached up and unbuttoned the top three buttons of her uniform and pulled it apart to reveal purple and yellowing bruises on her throat and creeping down below her uniform. “This is not a world to raise a child up in.”

Her simple explanation stirred the hydra from where it had remained frozen, and it approached her, lifting a single thick tentacle to stroke the bruises. It then raised that same tentacle to stroke her cheek with a fondness he had never seen displayed for anyone but him. She leaned into the contact even as she rebuttoned her uniform and smoothed her sweater into place.

“You have a ten minute window before the next guard check. The technicians are having a meeting regarding progress reports, but they will be done soon,” she said before handing him the bag of sugar. “Eat that. You will need all of your strength.”

Steve took the small bag with its dwindling lumps of sugar and began to quickly eat them. He began to take stock of his room, but it was reinforced and aside from the hole in the roof and a drain in the floor, there was only one way in and out of this room. He could perhaps make it to the antechamber before the video surveillance would begin, and his break out would be known. That was assuming the hydra allowed him anywhere close to the door.

He looked over at the hydra who had sidled up to the nurse and was hugging her full body, which might have been an amusing sight if she hadn’t been crying silently. She, for her part, was pulling papers off of the clip board and handing them to the hydra. He immediately could tell they were blue prints.

He had to sit on the edge of the table, already tired. “I’m not going to make it far. I haven’t been given my allotted hour of exercise in the last while. What’s your name, ma’am?”

“You don’t need to know it. The less you know of me, the better for my survival,” she said quickly, wiping at tears. “Edwin will take you where you need to go.”

“Neither of us have weapons,” Steve pointed out softly.

“You won’t need them for your escape, not right away,” the nurse said. “You’ll be swimming.”

“A tad cold for an outdoor adventure,” he murmured. He could barely maintain his body temperature as it was.

She ignored him and pointed to a big open room on the blue print. “Here. You must deliver him here in two hours,” she said but clearly wasn’t talking to him. “It’s the only way.”

“What’s there?”

“The betrayer,” the nurse replied. “Margaret says that you have to be there at the right time for any chance of escape.”

Steve froze in mid-motion of bringing another lump of sugar to his lips. “Peggy,” he breathed and couldn’t help the smile on his lips. Of course, she would have a plan, but his eyes drifted to the blue print, to the large room and he felt a hollowing of his guts. The betrayer would no doubt be Rumlow, and as much as he didn’t want to be anywhere close to the man, he understood the necessity of it. That all hinged on the idea that Rumlow had experienced a considerable change of heart when it came to working with HYDRA.

“Peggy is coming too,” Steve finally asked. “Her and… Sinthea?”

The nurse looked at him and could only shrug her shoulders. “She said she had something arranged, but she gave no details.”

“I’m not leaving without her,” he replied forcefully.

“This war is worth more than any one of us.” The nurse began to pry the hydra’s tentacles off of her. “You have to go. Time is not on your side.”

“I don’t know where I’m going,” Steve said and reached to take the blue prints. However, the hydra’s tentacles tightened on it, crumpling the paper up and then tucking it underneath its bulk. “Pal…”

“Edwin knows. He’ll get you to where you need to go. Through the pipes is the only way,” the nurse murmured fondly.

Steve looked at the hydra, wondering who Edwin was. “How will Edwin know?”

“He was once an engineer. He planned and built the underground water base where you found him with the others. He apprenticed with the engineer corps regiment that built this place. He knows where to go.” She reached out and touched the hydra gently before stepping away. “You must go.”

He felt the weight of the task ahead of him even as his expression hardened and he slid from where he had been sitting. His legs felt like jelly, but he locked his knees and began to shuffle woodenly towards the entrance of his cell. The nurse stepped in front of him and pressed the code to open the door, the glass sliding out of their way.

He looked back at the hydra who hadn’t moved and then offered a hand back to the sad, sorry creature. “Come on, pal, we have a prison break to enact. If nothing else, we’ll be a distraction.”

The hydra seemed to seriously consider the task ahead of it, shrinking in on itself in what he had come to know as the ‘thinking’ pose. It meant that the different consciousnesses were communicating among themselves, but it took less time than usual for large scale decisions. The hydra seemed to shrink towards the floor, looking like a lumpy flesh coloured pancake.

It began to move its tentacles in an undulation that moved it forward. This was clearly ‘stealth mode’, and it crawled its way to the door and then over the threshold.

The nurse sank to the floor and began to weep softly.

Steve reached out and touched her on the shoulder. “Come with us,” he murmured.

“Go. I have my promises to keep,” she said through her tears.

He nodded and decided to honour her wishes as he stepped over the threshold on wobbly legs and headed for the center of the labs, looking around for a way out. It was difficult to concentrate but better than it had been in a good while, and he fought with the constant fog of his mind. He stepped over to a massive grate in the middle of the floor where the hydra was poking around.

There was the sound of water subtly but also many pipes running the under it. Together, he and the hydra levered it open enough that he could slip down under the floor. He almost used all of his renewed energy to keep it open enough for the hydra to slip in with him.

Above them, the nurse who wouldn’t give her name walked over the grate with not a single downward glance.

Steve moved through the tight space awkwardly, sliding over smaller pipes as the hydra seemed much more suited to this life of squeezing through tight spaces. They had to move two rooms over slowly, he having the most difficulty finding spaces large enough to crawl along as pipes criss-crossed each other. It was only then that they found an access panel to the largest pipe here.

The hydra had to open it as he was winded and dizzy. When it did, the putrid smell that emerged almost dropped Steve back into unconsciousness. He made a supreme effort not to cough or gag even as he elevated himself to peer inside.

That was a mistake if there ever was one. The pipe was about half full, moving with a subtle current, but it was clear that it was a sewer drainage system. It had to be one of the main pipes given how much he could hear draining into it, and his eyes watered even as he knew the only decision to make. He slipped inside and gagged as urine, feces and anything else hit and soaked him.

The hydra entered after him, pulling the access door closed behind them. He was able to set his feet down and stand, but they were now cast in absolute darkness with the panel closed. It was then he heard the sudden sound of the alarms.

The guards had made their rounds.

*****

Timothy Dugan raised his head from his work of sweeping up the metal shavings at the sudden blare of the alarm overhead. He twisted around slowly to regard the state of the guards who all seemed as unaware of the reason for the alarm as the milling workers, and he knew something had happened on a scale that required the entire facility on alert.

He looked down at the shavings and continued to sweep, moving them towards the junk barrel, his moustache twitching back and forth over his lower lip. His eyes were constantly on the move, watching as the workers were ordered back to work. He stooped so that he could sweep the shavings into a dustpan in order to dump them into the junk barrel.

His eyes shifted to the barrel next to it, old oil and chemical liquids having been kept. “Is that the signal?”

There was no reply.

Dugan flicked his eyes around again, looking for signs of Jones on the floor. He knew that the guards had specifically put them together the three days to see if they would communicate at all, but Gabe had steadfastly ignored him. The guy hadn’t even made eye contact on those extreme few occasions when they had been in sight of each other, and he tried not to take offense. He had taken his beating about the key just as everyone else possibly involved had, and he knew he had put Jones in a tough spot.

The other Commando hadn’t given up the key, and for that, there was hope. Right now, that’s all he could cling to in order to get through the day-to-day.

So now he had to decide whether or not this alarm was the signal, to get his own plan rolling. He eased away from the barrel, heading over to another section of the workshop to continue his sweeping, and he began to gather up the wood dust from one of the saws. He emptied the fabric gather bag into a barrel nearby, catching a handful.

The guards were making rounds, forcing workers back to their task. Between some supply crates, he caught sight of Jones with a group of three other workers at the back-breaking work of transporting sheet metal. Just for a single moment, Gabe looked his way and met his gaze and there was a subtle nod of the head which he never thought to see again from the other man.

Gabriel Jones was going to fight.

Timothy shifted and rubbed his hands together, the saw dust trapped against his palms. Back and forth, he rubbed quickly, constantly on alert that a guard might spot him. The fine dust agitated his hands but that friction allowed him to apply himself, struggling for concentration. This was very new for him; for the longest time, he didn’t think he had any special abilities.

Rubbing his hands together faster, he applied himself until smoke began to rise from the dust, and he dropped it into the barrel. They settled with the rest of the wood and metal shavings, but it was the wood that began to smoke. Soon a small flame jumped up, spreading quickly, and Dugan eased away to return to his task of sweeping.

He moved away as the smoke began to rise from the barrel, sweeping as he went. He shifted in the direction of Jones who was struggling with the sheet metal. He set the broom aside and suddenly moved in to shoulder it with the group. “Easy, fellas, we got this.”

Jones shot him a scathing look and in the process, seemed to notice the smoke. He grinned and they had no other choice but to shuffle to set the metal with the other sheets under the most bare-bones of the Valkyries on the construction line. It took the group of them to lay the metal down flat on the work bench, and they were in the process of setting one to the machine that would cut the sheets into their appropriate shape.

“Fire! FIRE!”

Several guards turned to the cry and there was indeed a fire burning merrily in the barrel. Dugan narrowed his eyes and thinned his lips, feeling a vein protrude from his forehead as he focused everything that he had. _Find the rest of yourself._

The fire sputtered and snapped, sending sparks up into the air. It gave a cough, ejecting more embers that hit the floor and suddenly the rest of the dust that hadn’t entirely been cleaned up caught and began to spread the flames. It moved rapidly across the cement floors, climbing up the saw horses at an alarming rate. So fast, no one had been able to get to the barrel with a bucket of water fast enough.

He looked down at the oil smeared on his clothing and began to feel warm, too warm. Suddenly the oil barrel gave a sizzling sound and burst into violent flames. Fire and noxious fumes began to spill out of the oil barrel, filling the air but more than that, the flames hit the floor and caught on old residue. It wasn’t much to work with, but it spread in a burst across the floor.

Dugan grabbed Jones by the elbow, pulling the other Commando close to him. “We gotta go.”

Gabe took one look at the two rapidly spreading fires and then at him, jaw working before nodding. Yet, Jones didn’t readily leave with him but looked at the other prisoners of war and began to speak to them in a language he thought might be Czech. The men listened, their expressions moving from worried exhaustion to cautious hope.

He eased away from the work station they were at as the guards began to shout orders for evacuation of the more precious tools and equipment to the far side of the room. Some of it was bolted to the floor and required tools and low beds to move them.

Some of the prisoners had began to grab buckets to douse the flames, but with the oil running so quickly and hot, many shied away from the high potential to be burned; their guards screamed orders and curses at them. He raced with his new small team and picked up some tools to begin to working to lift some equipment. 

Two of the Czechs ignored that possibility and grabbed tools with the express purpose of attacking their guards who were in the process of yelling. Gun shots suddenly were fired into a group of cowed prisoners and all hell began to break loose.

To his shock, Jones began to shout in different languages, most of which he couldn’t identify from the next. It caused him great confusion as Jones had only spoke of knowing some German, French and of course English. It was the English that he caught. “Captain America is free. It’s time to fight for freedom!”

Timothy grabbed Jones by the arm and shook the other man. “How do you know that?”

“I don’t. It’s the only explanation for a facility wide alarm,” Gabe replied. “What else could it be?”

He looked around at the sudden rioting as many men seemed to break from their fear-based stupored state and began to grab anything to attack their guards. The mob mentality took root so easily in tired frightened minds that many clustered together and began to take out anyone who wasn’t a worker. Even the engineers – many of them conscripts to HYDRA regime – joined in.

“Cap’s free,” he mumbled, tears pricking his eyes. There were, of course, other explanations, but he wanted so badly to believe and so he did. “Cap’s fucking free, and we’re getting out of here. The sparks happened!”

Gabe nodded and seemed to also come alive, and he wondered if they shared the same kind of expression. There was hope, small and slight but there was hope. “We need to incite more of a mob outside of the work areas. We need to open the cells.”

Timothy knew more pressing matters were on the horizon. “We need to get to wherever you hid that key.”

“My cell. What’s it a key to?”

They began to move towards the swarm of mob, of the workers that were beating open the doors and spilling out into the halls. They were armed only with the weapons of the shop and those few HYDRA weapons that they had picked up from the dead guards. He grabbed a wrench and screwdriver as they began to wade into the yelling crowd.

“It’s the key to Rumlow’s shackles,” he called back.

Gabe suddenly stopped. “What?”

“Come on, we can’t stop here. We need that key,” Dugan said, nodding his head.

“No,” Jones replied coldly. “No, we aren’t letting him go. He deserves his fate.”

“I know and I agree,” Dugan said. He meant the words, but he knew that this plan required Rumlow’s assistance and the only way that was happening was on the promise of freeing the man. “He has to transport us all out of here, Gabe. Without him, we are stuck in the Austrian Alps with no equipment, no clothes but this and nothing to eat. He’ll send us somewhere else.”

“Why would you trusting him to put us anywhere safe?” Gabe suddenly accused, looking angry even as they began to hustle again. There was strength in numbers after all.

Dugan gritted his teeth. “Because I have to right now. He said he would transport us, and I need to believe in that more than I need to trust him.”

“He deserves to eat shit,” Gabe snarled.

“Oh believe me, he gets enough of that,” Dugan called back. “He lives in his own filth for a week at a time. He lives in this tube that allows him to conduct his power like he’s a human battery, and if he acts out, the Skull electrocutes him.”

They pushed passed a small mob of men curb stomping a hapless guard, ignoring the slippery patches of blood on the floor and having to step over fallen bodies, both HYDRA guards and prisoners alike.

“And why are we setting him free,” Gabe asked as they had to pause due to a bottleneck at one of the doors between the cell blocks.

“Because the shackles he has limits his powers,” he said before hollering encouragement at the prisoners fighting to rip the door off. There was a scream of metal ahead of them. He looked back at Gabe, setting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “He has to think we’re setting him free or he won’t help.”

Jones frowned but nodded before he watched as the other Commando bent and gestured to a rats hurrying out of the fray. His eyes widened as the creature reluctantly came over and Gabe picked the dirty bugger up and began to _communicate_ with it. The rat squealed and squirmed, and Gabe replied in turn with similar sounds and everyone who wasn’t engaged either laughed or stared.

After a full minute of rat-speak, Gabe put the rat back on the floor and it ran off between feet to the nearest cell and disappeared. The other Commando looked at him. “He’s going to tell the others to get the key.”

“How… did you learn to do that?” He was still straining to see where the rat went.

“Is there anything better to learn in prison camp?”

“Crochet?” Dugan shrugged then grinned.

The mob had broken through the door and was swarming into the next cell block, greeted by the shrieking of men and the startled orders to guards rallying themselves. Those POWs locked in their cells banged on their cell bars, howling like a band of rabid monkeys. They were pressed in by all of those behind them, surging with energy as guards tried to subdue them but seemed overwhelmed with the vast numbers. Men began to split off to venture down other halls leading from the cell blocks, overwhelming the guards stations, which had not seen an attack in many, many months and were clearly understaffed.

Gabe grabbed his arm and jerked him through the mob to travel on the sides closest to the cell doors. Most were being opened by other prisoners who had lifted the keys off of the bodies of the dead guards. Others might be using the opportunity to hang back or loot.

Dugan hollered orders and encouragement as they moved with the mob that was only building in momentum. It was the first taste of potential freedom that any of them had experienced in so long, and with Jones also shouting in various languages informing everyone of the fact that Captain America was free, the shadows of men came alive.

Some, of course, were too sick, too injured and too shell-shocked to join in, lingering in their cells as broken men. Others literally hadn’t the energy to participate. Months of starvation couldn’t even allow them a burst of adrenaline, so they lay as they were.

Dugan kept looking for signs of the other Commandoes, expecting that they had to be here. Morita, Falsworth, Barnes had to be in these blocks, right? He knew that Dernier had passed months back, and he suddenly wondered if Jones knew. The pair had been thick as thieves, but right now, he couldn’t bear to ask. They needed the momentum.

For that, he felt awful. However, mitigating distraction was something that he had to do.

Instead, they moved with the mob, and he almost overshot the moment when Jones dipped into an open cell door. There was literally nothing in it, not even a blanket for warmth. It looked exactly like his cell since they had moved the key. He pushed inside the small space and looked around expectantly.

Four black rats scurried into the cell, standing on their hind legs and bobbing their heads. He watched in amazement as Jones directed them, and they took off like a well oiled force. It took only a few minutes for them to return dragging one of the most valuable objects in the facility. They handed it off without a fuss and looked at Jones for direction.

Gabe picked up the key and looked contemplative, even a touch rebellious.

Dugan could practically read the other Commandoes’ thoughts. “We need him to have any chance of helping Steve.”

That seemed to draw Jones out of the idea of getting rid of the key. Instead, his friend from better times slapped a hand against a panted leg and the three of the rats raced up the material to come and perch on Jones’ shoulder. The fourth turned and fled up the bank of cells, drawing other curious hungry rats in until a second mob began to form.

“…what did you do?”

“I’m told them there was more food for them if they would scout ahead,” Jones replied, looking seriously at him as if he might laugh. “This is what I can bring back to the platoon. I speak in Tongues.”

“You are going to unite this rag-tag group,” Dugan remarked before turning to head to the cell door. He pulled out the now dirty handkerchief that Agent Carter had given to him and Rumlow had ensured that he had kept. “We all have something more to bring. Let’s give ‘em Hell.”

Jones nodded grimly and together they rejoined the mob growing in the halls.

“Tell them to follow me, Jones. I know where the escape room is,” Dugan hollered, grinning from ear-to-ear.

*****

“I told you it would work,” Arnim Zola said smugly, gesturing to the hulking man standing at attention before the Red Skull.

“Very good, Doctor. Very good. If your technique can work on Captain America’s ally, we can finally have some long-term control over the others,” the Skull replied, walking around the shirtless man as if appraising a horse for future purchase.

James Falsworth shifted in his chains, glancing down to where they connected and held him fast to the floor. He was unhappy to be here, aware that his presence couldn’t mean anything good, especially where Bucky Barnes was concerned. The other Commando stood loose and easy, face blank of any emotion, which might have been startling if he hadn’t been watching it happen more and more over the last few weeks.

His once comrade was again whole, a new metal arm attached to the left side of Barnes’ body. It was so shiny and chrome that he knew that Zola had spent a long time creating it specifically for this moment, to show off to the Skull after so long shoved to the side. The smooth metal plates were able to move, to lock into place, and he had seen Barnes tear the door right off of one of their cells with little apparent effort. That’s probably the last thing that Two Tees had seen before the metal door had been wielded like a weapon to crush the babbling man’s skull.

That had been last week.

Even though they had been allowed to continue residing in a cell together, it had begun to feel more and more like he was bedding down with a tiger, never entirely knowing when Barnes might strike. Their small cell block was now simply him and Barnes, and now he had to wonder if his number was up.

Falsworth shifted in the chains that held him fast to the floor, the shackles at his wrists and ankles tight enough to be uncomfortable even with hardening his skin. He wanted to make as little motion as possible, but he also knew that didn’t matter. Whatever he was here for, it was not good for his health.

“How did you come up with such a smooth design for this arm?” The Skull was examining Barnes’ metal fingers closely, clearly noting the detail.

“A collaborative effort between myself and the Russians,” Zola said, preening quietly. “It is fully functional, though an external power supply can be attached to increase its potency.”

“The nerves?”

“Attached through the servos. We believe he has full sensation and proprioception, though more experimentation is necessary,” Zola murmured, glancing over at where he was standing. “The Russians have been working with building up and breaking down their elite soldiers since the beginning of the war. We used that as a basis for making him compliant.”

Finally, the Skull turned towards him, releasing Barnes’ metal hand. “And he will act on orders?”

“Yes, tests so far have been positive.”

“And you have brought this one here for demonstration, I take it,” the Red Skull smiled at him, but it was cold and predatory.

Zola glanced at him, frowning slightly. “This is one of his comrades, and he has unique abilities himself. I brought him to show them and ask that I have permission to start the mental reassignment process on him.”

The Red Skull sniffed as if disappointed. “What abilities did our dear Madame Hydra manage in this one?”

“He can harden and soften his skin,” Zola reported.

“Ah yes, I recall you mentioning that some time ago,” the Red Skull approached, standing in front of him and appraising his ruddy appearance. He shifted and stood as tall at his chains would allow him, setting his jaw and flaring his nostrils in challenge. “A test is necessary, Doctor.”

Falsworth wanted to make a smart comment, but he decided against it last second. Instead, he threw his eyes to Barnes who still stood rooted and staring straight ahead, either unaware or uncaring of their current predicament. His friend looked everything the perfect soldier, ready to perform any order and that more than anything frightened him.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Zola said.

“Remove his name,” the Skull interjected. “Names come with associations, and he is better without any.”

“Leave him alone,” Falsworth snarled softly. “You’ve done enough.”

Neither the Skull or Zola paid him any mind, and he drew himself up higher, hardening his skin along his arms, back and throat. The Skull was moving in front of Barnes, looking the other man dead in the eye. “Break his bones.”

Slowly, the other Commando turned cold eyes to regard him. “Yes sir,” came a voice that was both James and nothing like him.

Monty watched as Barnes turned to face him, walking with slow predatory intent. He had seen that walk before, and it took everything that he was to hold his ground and not curl into a ball close to the floor. Instead, he faced his comrade with a set expression and hardened the skin down his legs and face, aware that there would be no mercy right now. He had seen the damage that metal arm could inflict.

“James, old boy, you don’t have to do this,” he murmured, uncaring how the Skull chuckled. Zola looked on unhappily, as if an opportunity was being stolen. “Stand down, Sergeant.”

Barnes came on regardless, closing the distance without hurry, and it was to build the suspense of the moment. The first punch came from the right hand, one he knew to be the other man’s dominant hand. It struck his cheek, bouncing off with no damage to him and probably pain to Barnes. Then the left hand swung up, catching him in the sternum and lifting him off of his feet so he was scrambling to get them back under him.

As he attempted to balance on the balls of his feet like a boxer, Barnes struck him hard across the face, snapping his head to the side with the momentum. Nothing broke thankfully, but it was still a beating all the same.

And Barnes was relentless in performing the order. He was beaten down to the floor with punches, and despite his ability, his skin blossomed with bruises. He spat one tooth to the floor, lips bloody and watching as someone dangerous and fearsome had inhabited the body of a man who had once been the only reason he had thought of living on. With each punch, he could plainly see how James Barnes had been stolen from him one small piece at a time.

In his shackles, he couldn’t even raise his hands to defend himself, couldn’t fight back. He instead was left curling into a ball as much as possible, his hands between his knees and his head tucked towards his chest. Still Barnes beat him, trying with every punch to break his bones.

Suddenly the loud blare of an alarm sounded. It might have distracted the three of them, but Barnes was unaffected.

“What is the meaning of this?” The Skull growled.

“There is no planned alarm testing,” Zola offered helpfully. He received more punches before the small Swiss scientist barked, “stand down, Sergeant Barnes.”

The other Commando immediately halted and backed off, coming to stand at Zola’s elbow like a well trained attack dog. It was only in uncurling that he noted the tears streaming silently down Barnes’ cheeks, though there was no change of expression. Instead there was something like pain and confusion in James’ eyes.

Falsworth rolled over a bit to locate the Skull who was over at a wall flipping through console camera feeds by the door. He slowly pushed himself to sit gingerly, shaky and wary as the alarm still sounded. He softened his skin and began to poke and prod at himself to locate sources of pain and there were many.

He cast his eyes over to Bucky who now seemed to be sagging forward. Zola was examining the arm, clearly thinking that this alarm had to be false. He stayed where he was, caught looking between the two parties and waiting for the verdict on whether or not he would be beaten even further.

It was he that noticed first when the Skull went rigid. He, in turn, lay on his side, pretending to be vastly more injured that he actually was, but the angle allowed him to continue watching. He might not know what was going on, but he knew it was enough of a fuss to cause the Skull anger.

“Doctor Zola,” Schmidt suddenly snapped. “Lock down the labs.”

Zola blinked rapidly, seemingly unaware of the danger. The Swiss scientist moved over to where the Skull was still moving through the closed circuit camera feeds, and he could tell the moment that Zola understood the seriousness of what was happening.

“What are you going to do?” Zola was looking in askance to the fuming Skull.

“I will be mobilizing Madame Hydra to stamp out this uprising,” Schmidt snarled. “And I will personally have to order the super soldiers. They can be too lax with their listening skills in the heat of combat.” The pair of HYDRA scientists exchanged a dark look. “Lock down your labs. Our work is too close to being perfected to risk it now.”

He could see Zola swallowing hard. The Swiss scientist was not in any way, shape or form someone who saw combat personally. However, Zola knew better than to refuse and nodded before looking back to Barnes who was now listing dangerously to the left, seemingly spent.

“What of them?”

Schmidt shot a heated glance back. “One of them is secured and the other can be. We will leave them here and move them once this… revolt is put down to ashes.”

“You want to leave them here,” Zola slowly clarified.

“Would you prefer to have to manage them as well as your task?” Schmidt gave them both an appraising look again, clearly untrusting of them but as yet, was not willing to risk the broader picture. Besides, Barnes had clearly shown the ability to be ordered. “We shall not be long in our tasks.”

Monty remained as he was, nursing his bruised flesh but keeping a weathered eye on the Skull and Zola as the pair began to make rounds of the room, collecting necessary items. Zola grabbed a German luger while the Skull produced a length of chain from the other side of the many consoles and experimental tables. Despite not risking turning over to keep the Skull in sight, he could hear Barnes being secured, chained to the same ring of metal welded to the floor as he was.

He had a single second of awareness that the Skull had approached him to realize he was under attack. The skin across his body hardened in time to stop the boot heel that had been about to crush his ankle, grunting in discomfort all the same.

“He could be useful,” Schmidt remarked to Zola. “You have my permission to make him one of ours like the Captain’s friend here.”

Zola bobbed a head, an oily smile appearing as the Swiss scientist looked down at him. He glared back, but it seemed that the order to lock down the labs took precedence over informing him of their future plans.

He found himself left behind with Bucky, which may or may not have been a punishment in and of itself. After all, the other Commando began to sniffle and sob softly as soon as the two HYDRA authorities left them alone, and it was the sound of a broken man. Despite his fear of what Barnes could and would do, he couldn’t fault Bucky for anything that happened here and before.

Instead, he pushed himself up gingerly and shifted to the chain that held him to the floor. It was curled around and locked to the other end of the collar that he was wearing. It was both heavy and seemingly impossible for him to break with his strength. In a way, aside from ascertaining that they were both trapped and held, Monty didn’t think there was any chance of escape.

No, they were stuck here until HYDRA released them. Instead, he slid over further and slipped an arm across Barnes’ trembling mismatched shoulders. “Hold it together, James. I won’t leave you, alright?”

“Don’t,” Bucky hiccupped at him. “There’s… something dark in me.”

“None of this is your fault,” Monty reminded softly. “It’s not you who killed those men.”

“It was my hands and that makes those actions my responsibility,” Bucky murmured brokenly. “It’s just… when I’m fresh off of whatever he gives me, it’s like I’m in the passenger seat of my own body, watching but unable to take back control no matter how much I struggle. It happens more and more now, like I’m chained down and trapped in my own flesh just _watching_ what I’m doing and failing to stop it.”

Monty rubbed at Barnes’ back, shaking his head and feeling the bubble of anger of what was being done to a good man, an honourable man. Yes war made them all monsters in a way, but this brainwashing was doing more psychological damage in a short amount of time than he had ever seen in their months of service together. Perhaps his fear was compounded now by the fact that this same fate now awaited him with little more than a flippant order by the Skull.

“We’ll… find a way, James,” he replied softly, trying desperately to keep the doubt from his voice.

“You should kill me,” Barnes said softly. “Before I kill or hurt anyone else.”

“You know I won’t do that,” Monty said with a sigh. “Someday we’ll look back on all of this and laugh over pint. Just wait and see.”

Bucky leaned into him, lifting a hand to wipe at drying tears. There was silence other than the constant wail of the alarm and the occasional shift of metal chains on the cement floors. Huddled together as they were, he took some comfort in Barnes starting to quiet and relax again, even if that involved listing to the left with the weight of the arm.

A sudden thought crowded his mind, and he looked over at the sad broken man next to him. “James ol’ boy…”

Bucky took nearly half a minute to respond, turning lost blue eyes on him. He watched as Barnes’ eyebrows drew together in momentary confusion, as if trying to place his face with a name. It was a clear struggle that broke his heart. “…James?”

“That’s you,” he reminded kindly.

“And you,” Bucky replied.

Monty had to smile tiredly, ruffling the hair at the back of Barnes’ head. “It’s been a long time since you called me that. Hell, it’s been a long time since I called myself that.”

There was a tentative smile returned to him, and he patted the other Commando on the flesh shoulder before picking up the length of chain resting on the floor. “What are the chances you can break this chain?”

Bucky regarded it for a long moment, considering. “Probably about as high a chance as I might kill you doing it.”

Monty felt ice down his spine, but he pressed on. “And what of this ring bolted to the floor?”

The other Commando regarded it for a long moment, and he thought that he had lost Bucky again to whatever internal struggle was a constant companion to the man. Slowly, Barnes reached out and touched the thick ring, moving it back and forth on its hinge on the floor. A tug was given and then Barnes rose to stand, though the length of chain that the Skull had put on wasn’t nearly enough to allow Bucky to obtain his full height. No, the Commando was hunched over but tugged on the length of chain, moving it through the ring.

“I could try…”

“You could earn us freedom if you do,” Monty encouraged softly. He began to harden his skin in response, aware that this could involve metal and chain flying all over the place. “Try. If nothing else, boy-o, it will give us something to occupy the time.”

Barnes nodded, bringing that chrome metal hand around to grasp the chain. The other commando began to pull, and there was a grind of metal on metal but seemingly little if any progress. Barnes leaned down to grab the ring itself, wedging metal fingers into the limited space that was occupied by so much thick chain. Still, Bucky began to pull and pull and pull, face turning red with effort but the grind of metal was strong now, the squeal of bolts in the floor sounding just above the blare of the alarm.

Monty worried that Barnes would seriously injure himself in the effort, but there was something desperate about Bucky’s expression that stayed him from stopping the other Commando. How many minutes passed he had no idea, but eventually the scream of metal was so loud and then it abruptly ended when the hinge on the floor gave way.

Bucky went flying backwards, the chain still in the ring going with the other man and Monty was jerked with the momentum. They slammed into the floor, loops of heavy chain under and around them. It took them both a few moments to realize that they were free to move around the room. They were, however, locked together.

“If I open the ring with some tool, we can be separated,” Bucky murmured, so pleased with himself. Like this was the first good thing he had done in a long while.

“Never mind that,” Monty replied. “We can deal with that later. We need to get out of this room.”

“We can join the rebellion,” Bucky offered softly.

“The rebellion happening elsewhere is going to cover our get away,” he replied with a grin. “I doubt it will get this far, not with the Skull mobilizing the super soldiers.”

They rose together, letting their chains drag on the floor as they moved around looking for weapons and to look at the closed-circuit video feed of the facility. There was indeed a rebellion in the prisoner blocks, a swell of men overcoming the guards and moving in a mob. Once they figured out how to shift the feed to other cameras, they came to an empty room with many scientists and guards. The equipment chilled him and Monty knew in an instance that was once where Steve had been held.

“The mob is massive and seems to be pulling HYDRA guards from many areas. We should be able to get through the halls without much struggle and find a way out,” Monty said. They had no idea the layout of the facility and it wasn’t as if the Skull left a map just laying around.

As they continued to flip through the video images, Barnes grabbed his wrist tightly. “There. That’s where the mob is going.”

“How do you know? It’s just an empty storage space,” Monty said, not entirely wanting to risk running through the facility looking for a specific room. Any way out was one he would be willing to take.

“Rumlow is there,” Barnes whispered.

“What,” Falsworth barked. “No, we aren’t going there.”

“He’s the way out. Everyone is going to converge there. He will transport us…”

Monty growled low in his throat. “Maybe to the center of the sun,” he snapped. “I won’t trust him.”

Barnes looked around the room and then directly in his eye. There was a clarity in those blue eyes that had been absent for weeks. “We won’t have to. We bring the Tesseract and with it, we can control him. Isn’t that how his powers work?”

Monty shifted, not about to seriously consider the intricacies of Rumlow’s powers, but he had to admit that it was a good plan. The Tesseract itself might be able to open some portal for them to escape to, negating the need for the traitor at all. If everyone was actually converging there, it seemed that there might be a way to get them all the hell out of here.

“Right, we grab the Tesseract and go,” Falsworth finally agreed.

“Over this way,” Barnes replied and took him over to one of the massive machines that occupied the room. It had a ray gun attached to it, so many insulated wires and cables that he wondered how long ago it had been built and then rebuilt. No matter, Bucky was using metal fingers to pry open the compartment where the Tesseract was housed and blue light flooded the room.

Held in that metal hand, it seemed rather innocent. A cackle of energy across its surface assured him that it was still fully operational and they had better get the hell out of this room.

He picked up length of chain, hauling it with him as they walked to the door that led to the hallways and then Barnes shoved it open. The guard stationed there turned just in time to be clobbered with a length of chain and dropped to the ground unconscious. Without a single word, Barnes wrenched the guard’s head and snapped that neck with an audible crunch.

“James ol’ boy, that was unnecessary…”

“It’s us or them,” Barnes replied coldly, throwing the glowing rifle to him.

He sighed and said nothing more as he took the glowing rifle and left off with his chain. The reality of war was pressed upon him again as he removed the safety as the high whine of energy buzzed through the weapon.

“Follow the sounds of rebellion, James,” he murmured as they began to walk away from the Skull’s control room.

“Follow the sounds of freedom, James,” Barnes replied, still clutching the quiet Tesseract in that metal hand.

Monty had the impression that the Tesseract was going exactly where it wanted to and would neither help nor hinder them as they began to make progress. Instead, its only action was to suddenly and rather violently tug Barnes’ metal arm in one direction when they reached a hallway intersection. It became clear that their map was clutched in metal fingers so shiny and chrome.

*****

Steve could barely keep his eyes open. He was exhausted to the point of unconsciousness, and it was only the hydra’s tentacles curled around his body that kept him from drowning in the filth that they were dragging themselves through. He clung desperately to the hydra in return, keeping his mouth as sealed shut as humanly possible.

He had no idea where they were or how close to their goal that they were. Above he could still hear the faint sound of an alarm but on more than one occasion, he heard the tell tale sounds of combat. Who or what was fighting he had no idea, but that sound meant that fewer HYDRA agents were looking for him.

Ahead, the massive pipe split into three others, one of three major intersections that they had come to. He reached up with a shaky hand to press on the hatch that allowed workers to perform maintenance on the system and was surprised to feel it shift.

“Here,” he murmured softly.

The hydra paused from carrying him forward, and together, they managed to lever the latch open. He pulled (more pushed from below) himself up and out, stilling at the sight of a bloodied body splayed next to the pipe. Above them, the floor grate had been pulled back and the bodies of dead HYDRA guards littered the ground. The smell of fresh blood couldn’t overcome the scent of the pipe contents that covered him.

He pulled himself up, dragging his body free of the sewage system and lay there panting. The hydra came up behind him and then simply lay on top of him, trying to ascertain the events. Far beyond, he could hear the sounds of guns firing and men yelling.

With great difficulty, Steve pushed the hydra away and then rose to his feet. They were in a major artery of the Austrian base, long hallways branching in four directions. He and the hydra began to totter after the rebelling group, stepping over corpses.

Not fifty feet ahead of them was a group of four men, three of which were tending the fourth. One saw them and rose, bring a HYDRA rifle to bear on them. The hydra immediately moved in front of him protectively.

“Stand down, soldier,” Steve ordered sharply. “We’re as much part of this rebellion as you are.”

“Where’d you come from?” English speaker at least. All four soldiers were watching them, but Steve knew he couldn’t stop walking or he might not urge himself forward again.

“The hydra labs.”

“Captain America?” It was the wounded man.

“That’s what I used to be called, but it’s just Captain Rogers now,” he replied, his voice quieting as his strength began to wane again.

“We were told you’d come,” the wound man said, waving the other three down from their posturing. “I never thought I’d see the day. Thank Christ.”

“You smell like a latrine,” another American said.

Steve managed a grin, ignoring the filth that covered him. “That’d be because I was just swimming in one to get here. Any of you boys care to come with us?”

“Gill isn’t stable enough to move.”

He and the hydra had come upon the group by now, and he could see that the wounded man named Gill had taken a bullet to the guts. It was likely a fatal wound given the circumstances. Steve wanted to feel sympathy, but he was so tired. It took everything that he was to keep on his feet right now. So, he gambled.

“If Gill isn’t moved, he’s going to die a prisoner. If you move him and come with me, he has a chance. Even if he dies, he can do so knowing he died a free man,” Steve said wearily.

“Help me up, boys. We need to go,” Gill said, still holding the gut wound.

And that was that. They began to travel slowly but surely together; no one even questioned the presence of the hydra or why it continually had to keep him on his feet when he stumbled frequently.

*****

Dugan panted and wiped sweat from his brow, though in doing so, he also smeared fresh blood across his skin as well. The fighting had been fierce, but their group had been desperately vicious. They had managed to arrive at the massive storage room after overwhelming the guards outside, which had been a massive effort. The Skull had clearly shifted resources to the front entrance, but their numbers and their determination by that point had overwhelmed the HYDRA soldiers.

He knew that more soldiers would be on their way. Possibly even those massive vicious ones that he had heard tales about.

Jones has paused to mobilize a defense at the door as some of their number was still out in the hallways. They needed as many of their number as they could gather but also any supplies that they could get their hands on as none of them had started with anything but the clothes on their backs.

So he walked with a renewed vigor to his step as he approached his real mark, the glass tube where the human battery was housed. In his hands, he had a German luger in one and the keys to Rumlow’s freedom.

“Back to getting what you wanted, huh ‘Coon?” It was probably the first time in months that he had called Rumlow anything but traitor. He hoped there was enough bite to make it clear they weren’t friends still.

Rumlow didn’t seem affected. “More are coming.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to be let out right now?” Dugan grinned when he was actually glared at. That would be a no clearly.

He used the keys from the dead guards to fit the lock that held Rumlow’s prison closed, and it was with what felt like a long practice that he pushed the locks off and hauled open the glass casing to allow the first taste of real freedom in months. Like always, he reached in to help Rumlow out, the soft squish of muck not as bad as it usually was but the smell was everything he recalled from a few days prior.

Despite the shiver that this was about to go all wrong, Dugan produced the other key with the star end, the one made from the same material as the shackles that bound Rumlow’s wrists and neck. He moved around behind the former Commando, only to blink when Rumlow side-stepped him.

“No, not yet,” Rumlow said softly. “We wait for everyone to arrive first. The decision to do it goes to someone else.”

“Steve,” he asked carefully.

Rumlow nodded and began to totter on shaky legs over to the water trough, but the traitor only made it about halfway when a rifle discharging sounded in the room. He inhaled sharply when Rumlow was hit in the hip and spun to one side, and he was already on the move to cover the man. Shit, shit, shit! This was their way out!

“Stop, you assholes! We need him,” he shouted, stepping in front Rumlow’s downed body. The offending prisoners looked between each other but didn’t seem apologetic at all. “Why in the hell did you do that?”

“He’s the traitor,” one soldier said simply. “Everyone knows what he did. Being shot is the least of what he deserves.”

“Fair enough, but you can wait until I get you all out of here,” Rumlow said from behind him, slowly picking himself back up. Blood mingled with the filth that covered Rumlow’s legs, but if it was a fatal injury, he couldn’t tell.

Dugan glared at the soldiers – because that’s what they were again – and helped Rumlow over to the water trough. He noted that more of their numbers were streaming into the doorway, including two men he wasn’t certain that he would see again: Falsworth and Barnes. God, it was good to see those two men again, and it gave him hope that all the Commandoes could come together again.

Rumlow waved him away once stepping into the cycling water. “Go, I can wash myself.” He began to limp into the trough itself when the former Commando added, “and don’t let the wiseguy who shot me near Barnes.”

“Why not?”

“Barnes has the Tesseract, and She’s protective,” was all Rumlow said before splashing in the water to rinse off excrement, urine and now blood.

Dugan suspected that being protective meant something dangerous, so he nodded as he walked away and pointed at the three responsible in some way of shooting Rumlow. “I need you three over there to figure out which switches need to be pulled to get us the hell out of here.” He expected with something to do, they would be out of the way and out of trouble.

He instead approached the new arrivals, including Barnes and Falsworth who had stopped to speak with Jones. It was like a grand old reunion, and he couldn’t help but belt out a laugh when he was close enough range to realize how rag-tag they were, how much weight and fight they had lost and yet, coming together again felt as if this was another new beginning.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said, smiling so hard his face hurt. He shook hands with Falsworth and Barnes, though he paused at the impressive metal arm Bucky had. It looked uncomfortable and told of long-term abuses. “Did you guys run across Morita?”

“No, we didn’t come from the prisoner wings,” Falsworth said simply. The guy looked weighted down with more than the loops of chain that connected him with Barnes still. “But we brought the Tesseract.”

He and Jones looked curiously at the glowing blue cube. This was honestly the closest that they had ever been to it before, and for such a small object, it had caused quite the mountain of trouble. “Good thing since I think we need it to get out of here.”

“How does it work,” Jones asked curiously.

“It’s an energy source, so I expect that we need a device to tap into that and direct it,” Falsworth replied with a shrug. 

Dugan glanced over towards the water trough where Rumlow was lounging. “Well, we have the source on to direct it and I imagine all the machines in here will tap into what the Tesseract has to offer. This is where HYDRA deployed a lot of their troops.”

“Is he going to help?” Barnes sounded far away but was looking over towards Rumlow.

“I suspect most of us getting to this point was because of him and Peggy,” Dugan said softly.

“Agent Carter is still alive,” Falsworth said with some shock.

“Oh yeah and still causing headaches to the Skull,” he replied proudly. “Though… by now, I expect she’s given birth.”

“What,” Jones barked before anyone else. “You didn’t tell me she was pregnant!”

Dugan shrugged helplessly. “We were a little rushed, and I figured once we found ourselves in a more secure environment that we could regale each other with tales, but yeah, the Skull got to her. She was pretty far along the last time I saw her.”

Everyone went quiet, which might have also been the reason that they could noticed the hushed silence from everyone else in the room. From the periphery of his vision, Timothy noticed that Rumlow suddenly shifted forward and then rose from the water. Then his head turned and he as well as the three others noticed why there were no more sounds of combat or talking.

Captain Steve Rogers walked into the room.

“Steve,” Barnes whispered almost reverently. There was something oddly cold about Bucky’s expression that didn’t match the tone.

Their Captain looked and smelled like shit, Dugan thought, recognizing the sort of filth that came from a latrine. He had seen and smelt it all too often on Rumlow, and yet, there was a palpable excitement that spread through the ranks as Steve walked deeper into the room, passing ranks of men from different countries and even managing a small smile for them all. It was easy enough to overlook the tentacle monster that slipped along in Steve’s wake.

“The gang is getting back together,” he said, catching Jones’ eye.

“What’s left of it,” the dark-skinned Commando murmured for his ears mostly. “Look at us, Dugan. We’re nothing more than shadows of our former glory, and we’re still waiting on Morita and Dernier too.”

“And Carter,” Falsworth interjected softly.

Steve saw them gathered as they were and walked with great effort over to them. Everyone but Barnes had a smile on their face at the sight of the blond. Steve reached out to clap each of them in turn on the shoulders as if to verify that they were real, that all of this was real. It was only in feeling how weak that grip was that Dugan understood that it had taken everything that Steve was to get to this point.

Yet, when Steve moved to clap Barnes on the shoulder, the other man suddenly seized the blond by the throat and _lifted_ Rogers right off the ground. There was a deadness to Barnes’ expression that shocked him into momentary stillness.

Falsworth, however, was immediately at Barnes’ arm trying to force a release. “No, James, no! Fight it!”

Maybe none of them should be surprised, but it was Rumlow’s hand landing on Barnes’ metal shoulder and the blue energy that crackled up and down the metal plates which forced a release as Barnes gave a yell of pain and dropped to knees.

“Disregard that command, Sergeant Barnes. You’re absolved of that kill command,” Rumlow said forcefully and with a vigor he hadn’t personally seen since before the fall of the world. “Repeat my order.”

Barnes rocked forwards and backwards, still clutching the Tesseract in the left. “I’m absolved of the kill command, sir.”

“Now on your feet, Sergeant,” Rumlow ordered.

Bucky rose as if kneeling on hot coals. There was exhaustion in place of that cold deadliness, Barnes breathing harder than necessary. However, there was no other attempt to choke the life out of Steve either.

Dugan included, everyone was staring at Rumlow who looked the healthiest of them all. This was a reunion in the making, but at the same time, it was necessary to get them all out of here.

Rumlow was looking at Steve. “Where’s Carter?”

Steve looked momentarily baffled by the question. Then angry. Then exhausted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She and the baby were supposed to meet up with you,” Rumlow replied. “That was the plan.”

“We never saw her,” Steve murmured.

Dugan looked at Rumlow, saw a flicker of conflict there before it was gone and their gazes met. Everyone here knew what they had to do, even if the topic of Agent Carter had them wanting to delay that inevitability. They had to leave, had to get somewhere relatively safe.

Rumlow turned and walked away, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the man’s state of undress currently. Of course, Rumlow wasn’t the only mostly naked man wandering around; it also wasn’t reasonable to think anyone would give the traitor other than spit or another bullet.

Jones sighed and walked off as well to assemble the men, to pull them slowly from their posts to head towards what was expected to be the portal out of here. Falsworth urged Barnes towards the machinery with the Tesseract, leaving him with Steve and the hydra.

Dugan reached out to offer the key of Rumlow’s shackles to Steve. “I think he intended for you to have this.”

“What is it?”

“The weird metal bands on Rumlow’s wrists, ankles and neck require this key to be removed,” Timothy murmured as a way of explanation. “We think the metal hampers his powers and allows the Skull to keep a tighter control on how he directs them.”

Steve reached out and took the key from him, rubbing filthy fingers over the spiked end. “It means he can’t leave with them on.”

He shrugged. “Probably. If you wanted, we could leave him behind. Someone already shot him before you arrived.”

“We can’t leave him,” Steve remarked softly. “The Skull will use him to get to us.”

“Is that the only reason,” he asked quietly.

Steve exhaled hard, looking every bit as exhausted as the man probably felt. “I don’t know. Right now, we need to get these men out of here and once I’ve had some sleep, I’ll consider how best to deal with him.”

It was just like Steve to prioritize the lives of many over the disgruntled opinions of a few. They needed Rumlow to get out of here and so the traitor had to come with them in order to be kept out of the Skull’s hands. Rumlow’s presence would likely be a conflict in and of itself, but the greater good required that they all do something rather distasteful.

So, he helped Steve over to the machine that would allow them to open a portal large enough and sustained long enough for their group of a couple of hundred to make it through. Rumlow stood off to the side, leaning almost casually on the glass tubing where the traitor would have to be in order to make all of this happen.

He noticed that despite the men still streaming in, Morita was not in their number.

Many of the prisoners struggled to figure out how to make the portal generating machine work, though the slot for the Tesseract was thankfully obvious and easy to open. Falsworth and Barnes seemed united in finding the way to getting them all out of here.

Steve had flagged in strength and sat down among other men in similar states. The hydra lurked close and protectively and Rumlow continued to keep a distance from everyone.

He lingered in no particular group but kept a weathered eye on everyone as much as he could. He felt relief when there was a crackle of electricity and a low hum from the insulated wires and a sparking from the massive round framework that would create the portal. Several cheers of overjoyed men followed; no one had any idea where the portal would take them but it was better than here.

Dugan moved to round up the most exhausted men, herding them to the portal that sparked to life, small at first but growing quickly until it completely filled the portal space. They could see the moment that the portal stabilized as the energy seemed to smooth into something akin to liquid.

He herded the soldiers there, waving those covering the door to shut and lock it. Yet, he was waylaid as Steve rose and tottered over to where Rumlow was housed again, though the glass door was open despite the energy that circulated in it. He came to walk along beside Steve’s slow but purposeful pace, though he stopped to give an illusion of privacy if the two wanted to exchange some words. They didn’t, not with how Rumlow offered each limb one at a time for Steve to mechanically remove the restraints. The neck collar was the last to go and also the most tedious as Rumlow apparently couldn’t leave the tube while the portal was active.

Dugan knew he wasn’t the only one to notice the infected electrical burns that had been hidden by the shackles.

There wasn’t time to dwell on that as the doors to the room were forced open by a group of super soldiers. Ten of them burst in like hell hounds, growling and snarling even as they took stock of the distance as their ragtag group continued to shuffle through the portal. They grinned like fiends, most of them already spattered with blood and brains from slaughter in the hallways.

“You need to go,” Rumlow said softly.

That was all the push that he needed. Dugan grabbed Steve’s wrist and dragged the blond after him, and he had no doubt that it was the last bit of adrenaline that surged through them as they began to run for the portal. The hydra, which had stayed behind at the control panel, reared up and made clear its intentions to defend Steve to the death.

“Go, you fools! Through the portal!” Dugan waved an arm frantically, driving the last of their group to hurry through. He could feel the super soldiers closing on them rapidly, and Barnes and Falsworth opened fire while guarding the Tesseract.

The super soldiers could take bullets and still come on strong. What sort of monsters were they facing, Dugan thought as he dragged Steve who was flagging with energy.

He looked over his shoulder to gauge the distance and found in shock that there was less than ten feet between himself and a group of six super soldiers. He moved to shove Steve forward towards the hydra whom had closed the distance and caught the blond, dragging Steve away as he turned to face the oncoming threat.

A fine slice of blue light cut through the leading super soldier, and the legs continued forward even as the top half listed to the left. There was a moment pause to reassess the situation as Rumlow’s hand made another slicing gesture and the Tesseract made a high pitched screaming as the other four super soldiers moved to contain the traitor.

Energy blew from the console from the Tesseract’s housing, and it seemed to melt from the metal that housed it. The cube continued to shriek and blew out lighting, striking the supers soldiers that were a step away from taking him down in the chest, stopping their hearts dead. He could feel the crackle of energy along his skin from the close proximity, but he was already stumbling backwards to rush to the portal that was collapsing.

He saw Barnes seize the screaming Tesseract in metal fingers and the hydra hauled Steve through the portal without a thought for anyone else’s safety. Falsworth and Barnes pushed through next with the last group of soldiers who had run from the door.

Dugan knew he was the last, and he looked over his shoulder as he sprinted with the last of his energy for the collapsing portal, which seemed bound to wink out before he could arrive. He jumped, absently aware of how comical it must have looked.

Rumlow blinked into the fading pocket of energy and seemed to literally shoulder it open long enough for him to sail headlong into it. Energy closed around him, tearing him in what felt like a side-to-side motion, and yet he couldn’t tell up from down or right from left. This was the exact sensation from the last time he had been transported by Rumlow’s power.

Yet, unlike the last time, Timothy Dugan felt a rush of relief when he fell stomach first into thick dense grass. He skidded to a halt and the first thing he heard was the sobs of a man nearby. It was probably relief but it sounded pathetic.

He didn’t deny that he teared up as sounds of birds calling alarm to the suddenness of men and other calls of soldiers of various languages calling to each other. No matter how short-lived it might be, they were free.

They were free!

*****

Peggy’s head snapped to the side with the force of the backhanded blow. A renewed wash of blood from her split lip coated her chin and dripped down her front. Her ears rang enough that she wasn’t able to make out the Skull’s infuriated snarl, but she had seen it often enough to be able to put sound to it.

She felt the heat of spittle on her blackening cheek as Schmidt screamed right in her face, “where is she?!”

Despite herself and the fact that she knew that she was going to die – or maybe because of it – Peggy offered a smug smile and then threw her head back and laughed. She laughed because it hurt, because it felt good to be able to do so, and also because she had done everything that she could to assure that Sinthea would be safe. Nothing else mattered.

Schmidt, beside himself in rage, grabbed her arm to tear her up to her feet again and then punched her in the shoulder, which sent her spinning backwards into the wall. Her clavicle broke with the blow and yet Peggy could only laugh so hard that tears streamed from her red-rimmed eyes. She laughed and laughed and laughed and Schmidt came on with murder in his eyes.

Suddenly the air between them blasted outwards with blue light, and Rumlow appeared to block the next blow meant for her. Only then did she stop laughing; this wasn’t part of any plan that they had managed to secret to each other.

Instead, she felt a stab of pure icy panic as she saw her small daughter hooting with laughter in the crook of Rumlow’s arm. She snarled at the betrayal, but before she could force herself up in motherly fury, Rumlow blew the Skull back with a dome of energy and then turned to sweep her up into his free arm.

“Hold on,” he ordered.

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” she scolded coldly.

“Neither was you not meeting up with Steve,” Rumlow snapped back. “Now hold on.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, watching as Schmidt pulled out an odd puck of metal and threw it with deadly accuracy at Rumlow. Before it could land, they blinked from the Austrian Base and all Peggy could hear as she felt as if she were pulled in multiple directions was Sinthea’s squeal of joy, likely at the pretty blue colours.

To be so young again, she thought.

Margaret Carter smiled despite the well of pain from her face at doing so as she felt grass under her bare feet. The sound of crickets greeted her and there was a soft breeze that came with the smell of the ocean, warm sweet air that brought a tear to her eye. It was dark but there were also the sounds of men finding each other with calls.

She eased away from Rumlow carefully, hot pain in her face and across her left shoulder. She looked at Sinthea who seemed perfectly content with the hold, and it was one of many reasons she didn’t immediately take her daughter back.

“Well, that’s it then, is it?”

Rumlow shrugged non-committally. “For now.”

“You did well,” she said. She knew no one else would tell him so.

“Steve is waiting for you,” Rumlow said simply and passed off Sinthea to her right arm. Without another word, he walked away.

Peggy made no motion to stop him. She understood why he was leaving, but she also knew that he wouldn’t be too far away. The Tesseract wouldn’t let him.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who took the time to read this! Any comments and kudos are much appreciated!
> 
> I know this story is massive, and while I have started on the next chapter, if readers are content to have this be the end, it can be. Otherwise it might literally go forever knowing how I write. Let me know.

**Author's Note:**

> The Tesseract (also known as the Cosmic Cube) is the Space Gem for the Marvel Universe. Based on the Avengers movie, I surmised that space distance and time where relative, since Loki traveled from way on the other side of wherever he was to SHIELD super-secret base though energy doorway. That allowed me to cheat to say the Tesseract can move small distances and ignore time or change it under certain conditions.
> 
> Thank you for everyone who had taken the time to read my work! Comments and kudos are always appreciated, and here's hoping we're all on an adventure together!


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